


Twelve Years After

by fantasticalwalker, Mordaunt



Category: Le Vicomte de Bragelonne - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014), Twenty Years After Dumas
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2019-07-15 08:47:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 91
Words: 281,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16059629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fantasticalwalker/pseuds/fantasticalwalker, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mordaunt/pseuds/Mordaunt
Summary: Twelve Years After... the end of the BBC Musketeers season 3!France on the verge of civil war.A determined Queen. A powerful First Minister. A young King.Old friends. Old foes. New alliances.A group of four young Musketeers ready to take action. Four young Musketeers with their own secrets.The story is inspired by Dumas' "Twenty Years After", "The Vicomte de Bragelonne," and "Louise de la Valliere." It continues the story that started in "Past Forgotten-Past Remembered" and the story "To Hell With Circumstances" by Fantasticalwalker. Fantasticalwalker is also a writer for this story (Two Authors, One story!)





	1. House by the Sea

**Chapter Author: Mordaunt** _  
_

_Love what art thou? Light and fair,_  
_Fresh as morning, clear as th' air._  
_But too soon thy evening change_  
_Makes thy worth with coldness range;_  
_Still thy joy is mixt with care._

_(Lady Mary Worth 1587-1651, "Song" In Book I of "The Countess of Montgomery's Urania")_

April 1648

 He settles in a large comfortable armchair on the veranda under a canopy of honeysuckle and jasmine. Below, the blue rippled expanse of the sea glimmers playfully in the morning sun. He looks older. His dark hair is now streaked with gray, as are her once raven curls. It has been years since they let each other go for the third time. His visit is unexpected, but not less welcome. She only wishes she had time to prepare.

He refuses the wine she offers. “I have not touched wine for years,” he says, a faint smile on his lips. Instead, he chooses cold water from the fountain at the mountains, infused with mint, sage, and honey. She waits for him to speak, although she knows parts of the story, from his occasional letters, from the travellers who reach these shores, from orders she decided to ignore, sent by the French Queen and her First Minister. Queen Anne fights a war now against her own nobles and her own people. They are rioting in the streets these days, throwing stones at the windows of her palace and those of her First Minister’s. They call the resistance against Queen and Minister “The Fronde.”

*****

She waits for him to speak first. After all the man who is now the Queen’s First Minister was his closest friend once.

“This feels like a utopia after the hellish rioting streets of Paris,” he says.

“I thought you kept yourself away from all that. I thought you had decided to stay at Bragelonne.” She is not certain if she should mention the place, the small estate he had inherited, where he retired with that girl, Sylvie, after the war. She imagines it is still painful.

He laughs, to her surprise. “I had thought so too, but have you any idea how impossible it is to argue against the force of nature that is the Marquis du Vallon? He is a persuasive man with strong views…”

“Still, this must be difficult for both of you… To oppose your two old friends…”

“D’ Artagnan is Captain of the Musketeers. He must follow the orders he is given…”

“Word is Madame d’ Artagnan is not as disciplined…”

 

The latest news from Paris mentioned that the wife of Captain d’ Artagnan was almost arrested for sheltering injured rioters at a house owned by Madame de Longueville, and that she escaped despite the fact that she is heavily pregnant.

“Constance is another force of nature…” He sits back basking in the warm sunlight, a playful glimmer in his eyes. “Go ahead, ask me! I know you are curious…” he adds.

He knows her well.

“I thought it might not be appropriate…” she explains.

“Aramis has not changed,” he replies, anticipating her question. “He is still the same good man. He has loved the same woman all his life. He adores his sons. They happen to be the Dauphin and his brother. He will do anything to protect them…”

She hopes she sounds as incredulous as she feels. “So all this is simply about a good man protecting his family?”

“No of course not… It is also about a man who has been given extraordinary powers. More than Richelieu...”

 

She cannot imagine what that must be like. A man more powerful than Richelieu. A man with so much more at stake than Richelieu. Athos must be thinking the same because he adds: “This is where the danger lies. Porthos is convinced that Aramis can be made to listen. If only we can approach him. If only we can get him to speak to us alone…”

Is this an invitation? Is he asking for her assistance? “You may have to go through Captain d’ Artagnan for this,” she says, ignoring his invitation, if this was one.

He drinks quietly. “This drink is extremely refreshing,” he replies looking out towards the sea. He is evasive, which means that Captain d’ Artagnan is on their side…

“I see…”

He smiles. “I knew you would. Would you consider leaving your quiet utopia and returning to the dirt and grit of French politics?”

“As you left Bragelonne?”

“Oh, Alessandra…” He is the only person who calls her by her real name. “I mourned for both of them enough. Besides, Sylvie would have been out in the streets now. Probably along with our daughter.” He is correct, she would. They would. Sylvie died at childbirth. They had a girl, stillborn.

“I was selfish,” he continues. “I know you thought so, but never said it. I was selfish. She was very young, and I was a broken man after that war. We could never marry…”

“I think she would find it amusing, Athos. That you have now turned into a revolutionary. I know that I do…”

He smiles. “We are all crazy old men. So what say you, Madame? Perhaps you and I may fight on the same side for once?”

“Athos, I no longer fight… I no longer get involved…”

“You want me to believe you are content in this quiet corner of Venice? I know you are well connected. I know that you still receive orders from the Queen and Aramis, which you ignore. I cannot imagine you languishing here, away from all that excitement, no matter the beauty of the place…”

“Maybe I have changed?”

It is his turn to look incredulous. She is not willing to tell him anything else. Perhaps if he leaves soon he will never know. She does not want him to know. It is best if he thinks she dissimulates. He has always thought that lying is her art.

“Alessandra…” he begins but stops immediately. Someone is standing at the shaded doorway.

 

She dreaded this moment...

She wanted to avoid this moment...

Or perhaps…Perhaps… she hoped it would happen.

 

“Good morning, mother!” he exclaims. He is wearing just his shirt, his doublet thrown over his shoulder, hat in hand, his long hair still wet from the morning swim. He has his father’s gray eyes. He looks nothing like her. Athos could be looking at himself, the same sixteen-year-old boy who had served in the court of King Louis long ago.

She avoids Athos’ astonished gaze. She had not planned this but somehow she had imagined a scene similar to this ever since she gave birth to their son.

 

It feels as if time has stopped...

 

She stands. “This is the Comte de la Fére, do you remember? An old friend from France…”

Athos stands up also, as if in a trance. A strange light glows in eyes. Is it recognition? Is it tears?

 

“I am delighted to meet you, Monsieur le Comte! My mother speaks of you often!” the boy’s voice is joyful and pleasant. He extends his hand and Athos takes it mesmerized.

“What is your name, young man?” he asks. 

“Raoul, Monsieur! I am told it is my paternal grandfather’s name…”


	2. Family Values

**Chapter Author: Mordaunt**

_I am and not, I freeze and yet am burned,  
Since from myself another self I turned. _

_(Queen Elizabeth, 1533-1603, On Monsieur’s Departure)_

 

April 1648, near Venice

 

He pushes aside the curls that frame her face, kissing her with tenderness. She lies in bed next to him, enveloped in his embrace. Outside the open window a nightingale ends its song and the cicadas begin to serenade a bright full moon that paints a simmering path of pale light on the calm waters of the sea.

“Raoul wanted to sail that path of moonlight when he was little,” she reminisces. “He insisted so much that we finally had to sail in Dionisio’s fishing boat one night chasing after it. He was four. He would not be convinced it cannot not be reached until he saw it with his own eyes. He wept when he realized he can never catch it. Dionisio’s mother, Angelina our cook, calls us all _pazzi notturni_ to this day.”

“You sailed in a fishing boat, running after the light of the moon?” He sounds pleasantly surprised.

“I have done all sorts of amazing things since I landed on this shore, Athos!” She sounds dead serious. “I have ridden the waves on the backs of Neptune’s horses, sailed to the edges of the earth, traveled to the land of mermaids, and fought bloodthirsty pirates in the caves around our cove…”

“I see now why you are reluctant to leave,” he interjects in the same tone.

 

It has been two days since the morning when Athos first shook hands with his son on the large veranda, which overlooks the sea. They continued as if nothing extraordinary had happened. As if this was simply a visit by an old friend. Raoul showed Athos his study, his books of Latin and Greek, his maps, for he loved maps of faraway lands, and his collections of seashells, plants, and insects. He spoke excitedly about discovering them, drawing their features, finding out about their attributes based on the books in his grandfather’s library and the archives of the Marciana. He spends much time there now with his tutor.  

 

“No extensive personal collection of swords and pistols, I fear Monsieur,” said the young man in his amiable manner. “I have a few as you see, but I am not as keen as some of my friends. I hope it does not offend you, for I know you are a renowned Musketeer, a Captain, and the Best Swordsman in France. I suppose I can wield the sword, if I must… My fencing tutor is well pleased with me. I prefer to adhere to my grandfather’s creed that the pen is mightier than the sword. He was a great scholar, as you know, Monsieur. His _History of Venice_ , which he wrote in his early youth, is to be found in the greatest libraries of the world.”

They sat together until past midnight that first day, the young man eagerly interrogating Athos about Paris, his Musketeer life, his battles, his travels, and all the illustrious people he had met. “Did you actually speak to Richelieu, Monsieur?” he inquired with breathless excitement. “Did you really meet King James and the Duke of Buckingham? Was King Louis bald? Did he have bad teeth?”

“Does he not know that you too have met all these people?” Athos asked her, bemused, after the young man went to bed. “Oh, he does,” she laughed, “but I am sure he thinks I invented most of my encounters to entertain him. Remember, I am his boring mother…”

 

Now as they lie in bed in each other’s arms, Athos finally comes to it. “We must talk about Raoul,” he says softly.

 

“I am not sure what to say, Athos,” she replies quietly. She thinks for sometime before she continues. “When I returned to Paris right after the war, I thought I might tell you. But it was not the right time…”

He agrees. It was not. “How old was he then?”

“Five. He wanted to become a great explorer at that time. I brought him a map from Paris…”

“I missed all this,” he whispers.

She sits up in bed and looks straight into his eyes. There is sadness in her gaze and fondness in her voice, despite her words. “I made some choices then. I thought they were the right ones. I chose to stay away from France and its new Queen Regent. She offered me money to kill for her. Did you know that? I understood her. She and I are not that different. We both wanted to protect our sons. I decided to protect my son from you. It sounds cruel now, I know. I could not see how the man I encountered in Paris, the man who lived in a frenzy of wine, rage, and the pain caused by an endless war, could be father to a little boy who liked books, collected seashells, and wept because he could not catch the moon. Paris was no place for my child. I would have to be another person, had I stayed. I despised that person. You were not ready for a child, I thought. That girl, Sylvie was good for you. She was the best thing that could ever happen to you…”

“He was my son too…” there is no anger in his voice, just sorrow.

“What would you have done in my place?”

“The same. I am not angry. I just wished it had been different…”

She caresses his chest and kisses it softly. “Then, let us not talk about what has been. You know how I feel about lingering in the past. Let us speak of what is and what can be. He is sixteen. He is well educated, bright, curious, and strong. He needs to be challenged. My first cousin Francesco is Commander of the fleet. He suggests Raoul joins him in his new expedition to Candia…”

“Oh no… No! Far better if he comes to Paris…”

“I agree. The Fronde will end. The King will come into his majority soon and we can only hope he is different from his father. But there will be opportunities for Raoul in Paris under a new King.” She smiles, adding “besides, I can follow him to Paris, and…well…now… he has you there…”

Athos laughs. “Do you plan to hold his hand forever? I was younger than Raoul when I first met you…”

“Yes, for all the good it did to you. You had no place being in that sordid house at that age. Was it your cousin who led you there, I wonder? Don’t tell me… I do not need more reasons to despise Rochefort. But the answer to your question is no. I do not plan to hold his hand at all. I want him to know I am there for him, whenever he needs me. Venice is too far from Paris.”

“So you will return to Paris?”

“If Raoul decides to join you, then yes. I will return with you. After all,” she adds with an impish glimmer in her green eyes, “ I want to make sure there is no duty and honor oath at the grave of the old King Louis. You know… the King Louis we both knew!”

He laughs and he retorts half jokingly and half apologetically: “But it is a family tradition! I promise to change the wording. Would you agree if I do? I will make certain he understands the oath better than I ever did…”

“Remember, Monsieur, you are answerable to me if he does not…”

“But what shall we tell him? What does he know about his father? What does he know about me?”

Her tone is firm and resolute. “We will tell him the truth. He knows that my husband, his father, lives in France. He knows you are an old dear friend. We have always read your letters together…”

It is not what Athos expected. He never expected such openness. But then again, he never expected any of this. “And will you speak to him about France?” he ventures.

“No,” she interjects quietly. “No. You will do that. You must.”

 

*****

The next morning finds Athos seated alongside Raoul at the edge of a rocky promontory soaring over the tiny sandy cove where Dionisio still keeps his fishing boat. They have practiced fencing for sometime. “You are a clever strategist, Monsieur,” Athos remarks with a smile. “And you have a very strong arm…” He is proud. No. He is very proud.

“You think, Monsieur?” The young man sounds genuinely astonished. “I mean… You are not trying to be courteous or kind? My fencing master tells me I fight like a man who cares little for the fight itself and simply wants to get it over with…”

Athos laughs. The description is not altogether inaccurate, but Athos also knows raw talent when he encounters it. “I think that this will change once you find a reason to use your sword, Monsieur.”

“May I ask,” the young man begins tentatively, “may I ask Monsieur, what was your reason?”

Athos thinks a while before answering. “My father,” he says finally, “taught me from an early age about duty to royalty and adherence to family honor. I came to realize much later that to fight for those you love, your friends, and your comrades, is the only real reason…”

“Is that what you plan to do once you return to Paris, Monsieur?” It is a targeted question and Athos marvels at the young man’s perception and careful subtlety. 

“I hope to make an old friend see things differently,” he replies. “I hope to do this without any weapons but he is a powerful man and reaching him may require that I fight…”

“Would you ever consider someone like me? I understand you have many friends and I am certain that my mother will assist you in the end. Don’t let her know I said this, but her advice is invaluable. My uncle Domenico, the Doge (1), consults with her all the time. But perhaps, you can think of a role for someone with my skills?”

Only the truth, this was her advice. Athos no longer hesitates. “Do you want to come back to Paris with me, Raoul?”

“Yes, Monsieur,” says the young man softly. “Yes. I would like that very much.”

“Then, it is agreed. Perhaps we will get to know each other better. I would consider myself fortunate if I do…”

There is joy and excitement in the young man’s eyes, “I too, Monsieur,” he interjects quickly. “I too shall consider myself fortunate…”

It is the opportunity Athos needed. “I am your father, Raoul,” he says quietly.

“I know, Monsieur. I have always known.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Doge of Venice: Chief Magistrate of the Republic of Venice


	3. Audacity and Courage

**Author: Mordaunt**

_"If it be a happiness to be of noble parentage,_  
_it is no less so to possess so much merit_  
_that nobody inquires whether we are noble or plebeian."_

 

_(Jean de la Bruyère, Charactères-Of Personal Merit (21), 1688)_

 

May 19, 1648, Paris

 

The young man grips the sling firmly in his hand. No attempt to escape or hide it behind his back. No attempt to pretend he is an innocent bystander. Behind him, the rioting crowd appears to be dispersing in a cloud of dust, dirt, and gunfire smoke. He cannot be older than seventeen, d’ Artagnan reckons. He stands tall, strong, his clothes made of different pieces taken from old faded military uniforms. He does not look like a beggar or a thief although he comes from that world of lost souls known as the Court of Miracles. D’ Artagnan thinks of another boy, long ago. A boy who stepped out of that world to become a soldier first, and then a Musketeer, a General, a Marquis… His best and most loyal friend, Porthos. There is something of Porthos in this young man’s dark, fearless eyes.

“Go!” he says.

The boy does not move. He gazes at d’ Artagnan defiantly and hums:

 

> _“A breeze from the Fronde_  
>  _Blew today;_  
>  _I think it blows_  
>  _Against the Great Minister”_ (1)

 

There is promise in the boy’s brazen audacity. D’ Artagnan has seen it before, in the eyes of his best men. He steadies his horse that neighs impatiently. “Go!” he repeats, his voice now more threatening. “Leave here or you will be arrested!”

The boy is completely bemused. He did not expect to be allowed to flee. He looks as if he is about to speak. “Well young man,” d’ Artagan interjects, “No time for words. Just leave. Should you decide to put all that courage into good use, you know where to find me…”

The young man disappears around the street corner just in time for Monsieur de Comminges and some of his men to ride to d’ Artagnan’s side. “Captain,” exclaims Monsieur de Comminges, the Lieutenant General of the Queen’s Guard (2), “the crowd has cleared. We arrested quite a few and the rest are fleeing. My recommendation is not to pursue any more rioters at this time.”

“I agree Monsieur de Comminges,” says d’ Artagnan, turning his horse towards the road to the Garrison. “It is enough. I will be submitting my report later this evening. I will see you at the Palais Royal.”

 

*******

“So how many arrested this time?” Madame d’ Artagnan sits back in her armchair, rocking a sleeping infant in her arms. She kisses his soft, rosy cheek and the baby coos, kicking his white wool blanket.

D’ Artagan, silently removes his sword and pistols. He walks up to his wife and kisses her long white neck. “Is he finally asleep?”

“We may hope,” she whispers with a smile. “How many?” She insists.

 

D’ Artagnan sits on a chair exhausted. “Oh, Constance… Must you ask? Many. Maybe sixty and de Comminges, I am sure, ended up with a number not dissimilar to ours.”

She frowns. “Poor souls… Arrested for hurling stones at men who brandish swords and fire pistols at them riding on horses…”

D’ Artagnan sounds exasperated. “Constance, for God’s sake…!” The sound of his voice makes the baby whimper in his sleep.

“Charles, please! Do not wake the baby…” Her voice is soft now. Her frown has disappeared. She looks at d’ Artagnan with tenderness. “I cannot help it, my love. I cannot help thinking how many mothers just like me suffer in poverty and hopelessness.”

He smiles too now. He hates this argument. They have had it for a very long time. He was never good at arguing. The truth is, that deep down, he knows Constance has a point. He stands up, walks to his office and shows her a letter. “This arrived in the morning,” he says happy to change the subject. “It is a letter from Athos.”

“Athos!” she exclaims surprised. “Is he well? I worry about him, all alone in that house at Bragelonne with just ghosts…”

“He is no longer there…” d’ Artagnan replies. “He writes from Venice.”

“Venice?” Constance is astonished. “What is he doing in Venice?”

“Well…” d’ Artagnan sounds as puzzled as his wife. “According to this, he is visiting his wife…”

“His wife? Milady? Milady is in Venice? I do not follow…”

“Me neither, but here it is, in Athos’ own hand. There is more. He tells me they will be returning to Paris...”

“They? Athos and…Milady…?”

“Athos, Milady, and their son Raoul, who according to Athos, is a young man of great intellect and potential…”

“Son!” Constance is aghast and for a moment she forgets to whisper. The baby cries and she hushes him gently. D’ Artagnan is about to speak but is interrupted by a knock on the door.

 

“Enter,” he orders.

 

“Captain, Madame, excuse the intrusion,” says one of the two young Musketeers who enter their Captain’s study. He is about nineteen, broad-shouldered and tall, with strong handsome features, his long fair hair pulled back with a leather ribbon. The second Musketeer is much younger, not older than sixteen. He is slightly built, not as tall as his companion and has short black hair. His features are soft, like those of a child. He is still beardless, but his large hazel eyes shine with determination and resolve.

“Monsieur de Rohan, Monsieur de Thierry,” d’ Artagnan acknowledges them both with a bow of the head. “How many arrested?”

“Sixty, Captain,” replies the older, tall Musketeer, called Monsieur de Rohan. “We cannot keep them here. We will try to accommodate them, but the Garrison simply cannot hold so many people…”

D’ Artagnan looks at Constance almost apologetically but she avoids his gaze, focusing her attention on the waking baby. He assumes his commanding voice, as he explains, “I will discuss this situation with Monsieur de Comminges. I am sure they have exactly the same problem over there. In the meantime, Messieurs, let’s treat these people with kindness and respect, and make sure we do not have a riot right here in the Garrison…”

“Aye, Captain…”

 

Constance says absolutely nothing when they are alone again, despite d’ Artagnan’s expectations. He is relieved. She keeps looking out of the window while rocking the baby who has fallen asleep again.

“Well, here comes another one,” she comments, breaking the silence. “He looks like your kind of recruit.”

“Meaning…?” D’ Artagnan is seated at his desk preparing to write another dreaded report.

“Another lost, unwanted child…” she quips.

“I do not recruit lost, unwanted children,” he protests.

“Of course you do! Who would have ever even considered Monsieur de Rohan anywhere in France?”

“Monsieur de Rohan is my best Musketeer, Constance. He is currently the best swordsman among all royal regiments. He is a man of unparalleled courage, honorable, and committed to his duty…”

“He is also the son of a criminal and a traitor…” she interjects.

“That traitor, his father, died long ago by my own hand. Monsieur de Rohan is also the son of a Christian woman from a good family who suffered as much as everyone else in that sordid affair. The boy was not to be blamed for his father’s many crimes. He is an innocent and he deserved an opportunity. I had an obligation to this child, Constance. I had to do something. Look how much he has thrived…”

“You are too good altogether, Charles,” she smiles, “and I love you all the more for it. I would not have been so kind in this particular case. I cannot forget poor Dr. Lemay and what his father tried to do to all of us. But I agree, his son has thrived under your command. As has that other nameless orphan you picked up from Bicêtre (3)…”

“Monsieur de Thierry chose a very appropriate name for himself,” d’ Artagnan points out with a smile (4.) “He is as eloquent, intelligent, and brave as his namesake.”

“Well, my love. Another one just crossed your door it seems…”

 

D’ Artagnan steps to the window now, curious to see what his wife has been looking at all this time. It is the young man from the Court of Miracles, the one with the fearless eyes and the sling. D’ Artagnan kisses his wife, and walks out of his study and into the courtyard where his Musketeers are training. The young man stands observing them carefully, as if he is studying their every move.

“Well, Monsieur,” d’ Artagnan exclaims upon seeing him, his voice at once solemn and affable. “As you see there are many ways to cultivate and exercise one’s innate talents besides hurling stones …”

The young man nods, but says nothing, clearly captivated by what he sees.

“The life of a Musketeer, young man,” d’ Artagnan continues, “is a life of duty, honor, commitment, and devotion. Your life belongs to the King…”

“I want to become a Musketeer,” says the young man, his voice too deep and gritty for one so young.

It is not so easy, d’ Artagnan thinks, but then again, he knows talent when he sees it, and it is standing now at the gate of the Garrison. “What is your name?”

“Fabien, Captain,” says the young man. “Fabien Marchal.” (5)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Adapted to this story from Dumas, Twenty Years After, chapter 29 (sung by Planchet in that case.)  
> 2\. Gaston de Comminges (1613-1670) was Captain of the Queen’s Guard. He arrested the Duc of Beaufort in 1643. He was a loyal supporter of Anne of Austria and later became Ambassador to Portugal and London.  
> 3.Bicêtre Hospital: located outside of Paris at this period. Construction started in 1634 and it was opened as an orphanage in 1642 by Father Vinent de Paul. We are playing with the dates here somewhat-- 1642 is a bit late for this story but we hope the discrepancy is not distracting.  
> 4\. Thierry is a character in the Song of Roland, very popular at the period.  
> 5\. Fabien Marchal is a major (fictional) character in the series Versailles. He is the “Chief of Security” (something like Captain of Musketeers,) for King Louis XIV. The story here follows the backstory of the character as discussed by the actor portraying him (Mr. Tygh Runyan)


	4. At First Sight

**Chapter Author: Mordaunt**

_La prima vez ke te vidi  
_ _De tuz ojos me ‘namori_

_(Medieval, Ladino song)(1)_

 

_May 20, 1648_

_Estate of General Porthos du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds, Marquis de Belgard, outside Paris._

 

“A messenger from Paris has arrived with a letter for the Marquis.”

The servant’s voice stirs Mademoiselle du Vallon from her book. She frowns, a slight crease on her otherwise calm, fair brow. She hoped no one would interrupt her reading. She sets her book on a side table. 

There is no one else to receive the messenger this afternoon. Madame la Guesle, her governess is paying a visit to the wife of their valet, Madame Bourdin, who just gave birth. The Marquis, her stepfather, has been hunting at Pierrefonds in Picardy, having gotten word of a large wild boar in his forests. Her mother is a guest of the Marquise de St. Rémy at Blois, along with her two younger daughters Renée and Charlotte. Olivier, Mademoiselle du Vallon’s younger stepbrother who just turned six, has also travelled with his mother and sisters to Blois.

Mademoiselle du Vallon enjoyed visiting Blois in the past. Mademoiselle Louise de la Valliére, the daughter of the Marquise de St. Rémy, who is fifteen, almost a year older, is her dear friend. But Louise has become a companion to the daughters of the Duc d’ Orléans and is much too occupied with her new duties to spend time with her old friend. Mademoiselle du Vallon reckoned that to see her dear friend and be unable to enjoy her company would be upsetting, and that Blois, once a place of much joy, would suddenly feel lonely and melancholy. She therefore chose to remain behind despite the protestations of her mother and her older stepsister, Renée who argued that Charlotte is too young to be her only companion at Blois and a person of little interest. Renée is ten years old and Charlotte turned eight in April. The comment, made Charlotte weep, and she did not stop until Olivier declared in his solemn, lisped voice that Charlotte is the most interesting person he has ever met.

It is not that Mademoiselle du Vallon does not love her stepsisters and her little stepbrother. She cannot imagine life without their vivacity. But she also longs for some time alone with her books and her thoughts. The latter she loves to write down in her notebook, although she does it in secret. Madame la Guesle has warned her that to spend time in solitude reading and writing is a serious ailment of the mind and must be avoided by young ladies who look forward to a happy married life.

In the past, Mademoiselle du Vallon wrote about the books she loved and her daily pastimes, and copied epigrams and proverbs she heard and read. But lately she is much preoccupied and her thoughts have been less disciplined. They take her to distant places and involve her in all kinds of perilous adventures. She knows exactly the moment this surprising change took place and has written extensively about it in her notebook, albeit, she admits, she has somewhat embellished the incident.

The facts however are these: It was late on the rainy morning of April the eighth, two days before Charlotte’s birthday. Renée was reluctantly practicing her music, while Charlotte and Olivier were taking turns riding their rocking wooden horse pretending to be Musketeers. Mademoiselle du Vallon was seated in the deep recess of the windowsill, behind the curtains, reading. It was the book she preferred the most, the story of Fortunio (2) who was really a princess masked as a knight. She was quite absorbed in the brave knight’s adventures and would not have stirred. But she heard the neighing of horses underneath her window, followed by her stepfather’s sonorous voice in the courtyard. It was unusual. Her stepfather comes to the door in this manner only when very dear and close friends visit, and she was not aware of any family friends visiting.

Underneath her window, in the pouring rain, Mademoiselle du Vallon witnessed the arrival of three cavaliers. One of them she knew well. It was Uncle Charles, the Captain of the King’s Musketeers, after whom Charlotte, his goddaughter is named. His two companions, Mademoiselle du Vallon had never seen before. One looked extremely young, almost her age. He reminded Mademoiselle du Vallon of the brave knight Fortunio. She had little time to consider the similarities, however.

The moment she laid eyes upon the third Musketeer, alighting from his horse, something completely unexpected happened. She felt a peculiar fluttering in her heart and heat rising to her cheeks, just like the time she was caught by Madame la Guesle hidden under her stepfather’s desk, writing in her notebook and her mother reprimanded her severely. Only this time she was not caught doing anything wrong. At least she did not think so. She liked that feeling, unforeseen and perplexing though it was. More perplexing still: she felt compelled to observe the unknown Musketeer for as long as her position at the window permitted.

Once he was out of sight, she could not shirk his image from her mind: tall and fair-haired, his face strong and handsome, his stride determined and steady. She could not tell the color of his eyes. She wished she could have been closer. Later, she realized how much she cherished the memory of his presence, and how much her imagination lingered in devising fanciful instances of a closer encounter. She has often felt distracted since that day. As a matter of fact, she was distracted thus just as the servant entered with news of a messenger from Paris.

*****

Mademoiselle du Vallon stands, still slightly annoyed, fixes her skirts, and assumes the poised voice her mother always uses on similar occasions. “Enter,” she says.

“Monsieur de Rohan (3) with a message for His Grace, the Marquis de Belgard!” the servant announces, as the bearer of the message walks into the room.

No fanciful encounter Mademoiselle du Vallon has ever imagined prepared her for this. Her knees almost give away and her heart flutters with such severity she fears it will escape the moment she opens her mouth. Her cheeks feel burning, almost feverish. She is blushing and it makes her feel even more embarrassed, which of course, does not help.

The Musketeer removes his feathered hat. “Mademoiselle du Vallon,” he says as he bows deeply, “Captain d’ Artagnan sends a letter, which I am to deliver to the Marquis.”

She steadies herself against a chair as she speaks, making sure she does not fidget and hoping that her voice does not tremble. It does. “Welcome, Monsieur. The Marquis is away, I fear. I will make sure he receives dear Uncle Charles’ letter.”

The Musketeer looks up, astonished to hear his Captain styled in this manner. He is unable to contain a smile. Mademoiselle du Vallon has never gazed upon a smile more beautiful. His blue eyes glimmer with shades of pale green when he smiles. I know the color of his eyes now, she tells herself with excitement, and immediately realizes she has been staring at him for too long. She lowers her eyes, embarrassed, and the heat on her cheeks becomes unbearable.

The Musketeer stares back, the same subtle glimmer of a smile in his blue eyes. “I am certain my Captain’s letter will be safe in your hands, Mademoiselle,” he says, handing her the letter. Her fingers slightly touch his ungloved hand and the warmth of his skin makes her shudder. I have touched his hand, she thinks!

“Thank you, Monsieur…?” she replies. “Monsieur…de Rohan…?”

“Yes, Mademoiselle,” he retorts, “My name is Jean Philippe de Rohan.”

He shared his full name with me, she tells herself and her heart leaps with joy! She looks up for the first time and her eyes meet his. Let this moment stay forever, she begs in her mind! She has never been touched by a man’s gaze before, and she is certain that she does not care to be touched by any other.

“I am Marie Cessette du Vallon…” she ventures, astonished at how steady and bold her voice is now as she speaks. “The Marquis is my stepfather. I believe we have met once before although you cannot possibly know it…”

“I know, Mademoiselle,” he replies gently. “I saw you that rainy April morning, looking out of your window…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Transcribed in Modern Spanish:  
> “La primera vez que te vi  
> De tus ojos me enamoré”
> 
> English Translation:  
> The first time I looked upon you  
> I fell in love with your eyes. 
> 
> (2) Madame d’ Aulnoy, “Fortunio or the Fortunate Knight”  
> (3) In this story: son of the Comte de Rochefort. See previous installment. Given the backgrounds of the Comte de Rochefort and Athos in “Past Forgotten, Past Remembered,” he is also Athos’ cousin. More about this Musketeer will be revealed in time.


	5. A Child's Legacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The character of Lucien here follows two fan-fiction stories that form the backdrop for the events that unfold in 'Twelve Years After'.
> 
> 'To hell with circumstances....' Lucien's backstory 
> 
> 'Whoever tells the story tells the tale' This is a series of stories told from Lucien's point of view or those who know him - occurring between the episodes in S2 and S3. 
> 
> Sophia's story begins in 'a plain, unvarnished tale...'

‘ _Everything passes, but nothing entirely goes away_ ’ ( Jenny Diski)  


**Prologue **  
**** _A few months after the events under the cathedral....._

The Minister fidgeted nervously in his chair and watched the man reading the document, fascinated by the thick bushy eyebrows wriggling and jumping as though equally displeased as their master. Now these mobile brows snapped together in a dark thunderous line communicating the impending outburst of fury and disbelief.

‘He is _dead_? Are you _joking_?’ General Duquesne glanced at Captain D’Aumont - who shrugged. He knew the story, but he hadn’t been there. Otherwise, it would have gone differently. He knew the man’s value.

The General swung his stormy look to the small minister, ‘how did this happen?’

The Minister raised a hand helplessly, ‘I understood it to be more a personal matter…something perhaps about a woman.’ Women could be counted on to be the cause of most trouble – blaming a woman was always a safe retreat.

The General glared at him - thick fingers drumming the desk impatiently. He imagined those fingers drumming into his head instead.

The minister shrank back in his chair, stammering, ‘I don’t really know the details…it is the official report,’ replied the finance minister. ‘But he lives,’ offered quickly, and kept his eyes on the drumming fingers.

The General rose from his chair, his massive body lifting into the air to a height normally associated with Olympian gods – now towering over the slight figure of the Minister.

‘I don’t give a _damn_ about any of this!' he waved the document at the cowering minister, 'or whose skirts he lifted - even if it was every king and queen in Europe!’ he hissed. ‘If he crooked his finger they probably skipped and danced their way into his bed! The military man turned to his captain, who was already standing anticipating his General’s order.

_Find him_!’ he thundered to Captain D’Aumont. ‘ _Find him…NOW_!’

**12 Years Earlier...**

The sound of a booted foot on stone and a shadow fell through the doorway onto the floor. A man stepped forward, dressed in a dark cloak, broad brimmed hat shading his face. The priest felt a sudden chill in the sun filled room and inhaled sharply but managed to not to make the sign of the cross in fear.

He was a dark man – dark clothing, dark hair, dark fathomless eyes, several days of dark stubble on his sculpted cheeks framing a sensual wolfish mouth. The filtered light illuminated fine lines around his eyes and mouth. Ironic thought the priest absently, these lines were termed laugh lines - but on this man’s face there was no hint of amiability. He did not smile.

The priest collected himself, ‘Can I help you Monsieur?’

‘Where is ‘Sophia d’la Croix buried?’ his deep voice rumbled, barely audible. ‘She is not in the family vault.’

‘Buried?’ gasped the priest. ‘Why would you think the lady would be buried? Yes, she was quite ill for a long time, but she survived – bless the Lord - a miracle!’ The priest crossed himself in tribute to his God and for protections as might be needed now.

The man was silent – his face carved from stone. His eyes bored into the priest, flickering with an unasked question. What did this man want to know? Perhaps he was worried about something else?

‘The child is buried here,’ the priest offered trying to be helpful. ‘Perhaps you would like to see the grave?’ he asked, not sure what else the dark man might want from him.

The man stood motionless. ‘A child…’ he whispered.

‘Yes, the poor child died at birth – almost four years ago now,’ the priest paused startled by the look in the man’s eyes.

Nervously, he added, ‘you are taken by surprise at this news. May I offer you a glass of water? You thought she….’ He got no further as the man interrupted him.

‘Where is she?’ he whispered hoarsely.

‘I do not know, she….,’ the priest started to say. The man stepped toward him grasping the front of his robe and pulling him to his granite face, his lip curling cruelly.

‘She was at the abbey, ‘said the priest hastily, ‘but she left there some time ago. I understand Minister Treville arranged for the Musketeers to bring her to Paris. Perhaps they can assist you.’ The dark man snarled at him menacingly.

‘Monsieur - friend,’ the priest stuttered with fear, ‘I do not know how to help you.’ He tried to shrug his shoulders but found it a difficult maneuver with his cassock gripped and twisted. His shoulders slumped.

Suddenly, the man released his hold, throwing him away from him and the priest stumbled back. He looked down at his crushed cassock, frowning and brushing with his hands to straighten it and collect himself. He raised his head to deliver a sound scolding at mistreating a priest and stopped.

The man was gone.

**12 Years After…**

The angel fixed a disapproving stone eye at him – wings spread wide and protective over the grave. He was digging carefully into the ground around the stone marker on which the angel was perched, rocking it gently forward and back to loosen it from the ground - the angel was not pleased.

They were in a small cemetery attached to the estate parish. Set in a grove of trees, it was an ancient stone building - a steep roof and double wooden doors opening onto a small groomed yard and a cemetery beyond.

Lucien Grimaud stepped back, wiped his brow and handed the shovel to Henri Levesque to continue the careful excavation of the grave marker. As he reached for the shovel, Henri glanced at Lucien who met his eyes with a slight shrug, his dark eyes flickering toward his wife.

Sophia stood apart from them, one hand clutching the edges of her cloak closing it against the chill of the morning. She was chewing on the thumbnail of her other hand - iridescent blue eyes fixed on the grave. She did not return his gaze.

Lucien looked away from her to the cemetery and towards the small parish – his thoughts uneasy and swirling with worry and frustration. Not for the first time did he wonder at the wisdom of her decision. Years ago, he had come to this cemetery looking for her grave – thinking her dead, murdered by a Musketeer. She had lived, but the child she carried was born dead.

For years, on the day of this baby’s birth, at her insistence, they visited the small grave - nestled under one of the spreading oak trees in the cemetery. He never wanted this annual pilgrimage. In the presence of the smallest of graves and this unknown dead baby, the past breached all barricades and remembrances of terrible events invaded their present peace. It had been a dark time and a long and difficult journey out of it. They had not known if they would be able to reconcile, forgive and find a way forward – together. He did not care for this ceremonial remembrance of his anger, violence and the death that resulted. It was a persisting fissure cleaving their lives.

As their children were born, he had persuaded her to include them on this annual trek. They were curious, although there was little information to give them – a dead infant was not exceptional. Many babies died.

It had become a shared family day – with a small service and remembrance and then a picnic and a walk in the woods or a swim in the lake. It softened the somberness that permeated the day and darkened her mood. It served to remind them of their current lives and hopes for the future. But he noticed, as she watched her children splash in the sparkling water and play games with each other, the wistful smile that tugged at her mouth and the muted lights in her eyes as her thoughts turned inward.

‘I want to bring her to the family vault,’ she said at their last visit, not looking at him, ‘she should be with us.’

He was surprised and had not replied immediately. It was the first time she had voiced this intent. He was not pleased – why now, after all these years?

Her illness following the shooting had been severe and she remembered little of the birth. Perhaps this child lingered in an indeterminate state because she had never seen or held her baby, washed and wrapped her in a blanket and burial shroud. She had not heard the priest say the prayers as her tiny coffin was lowered into the ground. There had been no naming ceremony or defined mourning period when curtains were drawn, manner of dress altered, and activities restricted.

Grief and confusion that accompanied death and loss continued unremitting – uninterrupted and unstructured – becoming solely internal to her, held privately so not to disturb those who expected that mourning was finished. There had been no one to her to take her away or coax her from her anguish. He had not been there.

Others had told her the child was dead. But her body had not believed it – her breasts had been heavy with milk, painful and yearning to nurse. Her mind had not understood either and her dreams were still often filled with hazy images and a child’s voice talking, crying or laughing. She would startle awake in his arms – his voice soothing, his hand stroking her hair - while she cried. She could not remember her baby – she could only remember the loss of her.

If the child was moved to the family vault on the estate, would the visits become increasingly frequent? Would she, as her mother had done for a dead son – her twin brother – install a bench and a candelabra so she could light candles, sit and read children’s books, tell stories?

‘If that is what you want,’ he had replied to her. ‘I will talk to the priest and make arrangements.’

Now they here, digging up the tiny coffin and preparing to take it to the family mausoleum on the estate, where d’la Croix ancestors had been buried for centuries. But this child was not a d’la Croix ancestor – this was his bastard daughter - whose father was the bastard son of an army whore. He looked at the small grave sheltering his phantom child and sighed heavily. Little one - he whispered to his daughter – I hope this is what you want too.

The tiny coffin was exposed and he and Henri lifted it carefully to set it to the side of the empty grave. It was intact, a small dislocation of the closing at one corner.

‘I will get the priest,’ he said to Sophia, who was standing still, not seeming to breathe. Henri went for the wagon. He stepped toward her and took her cold hand in his, ‘are you all right?’ he asked, furrowing his brow in concern. She was very pale. She nodded, but did not look at him, only patted his arm. He walked toward the church.

She stood alone staring at the small box that held the remains of her first child. She yearned to see the tiny bones, a delicate scaffold for the softest of human skin covering a fragile body, the special scent of her baby wafting up to her. She imagined her infant daughter - eyes initially blue, later changing to the gold and green color of her father’s hazel eyes. She would have a light dusting of his dark hair on her rounded head. It would be enough to tickle when she rested her cheek against it. A small fist would grip her finger and she could see little feet and the small rosebud infant’s mouth moving rhythmically as she nursed at her breast.

She knelt and put a finger to the opening. She should not look – reason told her she would not see her baby – but the need to look was a mother’s yearning - more powerful than any reason. She pushed against the opening and the lid lifted slightly. She grasped the edge with her fingers and pulled the lid of the coffin open.

Lucien was mid-stride in the church when he heard her screams shattering the quiet. He whirled and sprinted out the doors and into the yard. Henri was rounding the corner carrying the long gun. Both men raced toward the gravesite.

She was kneeling - hands to either side of the coffin- staring into it screaming and crying hysterically. Lucien reached her and flung himself to the ground, threw his arms around her and pulled her to him and away from the coffin. She clutched desperately at his shoulders, her eyes wild, gasping for breath and tears streaming down her face. For a moment he thought she had gone mad with her grief. She shook him roughly, incoherent, trying to force words from her mouth but he couldn’t understand her. He pressed her face firmly against his chest and looked into the coffin.

It was empty.


	6. Find the Lady

**Author: Mordaunt**

_When we are in the tavern,_  
_we do not think how we will go to dust,_  
_but we hurry to gamble,_  
_which always makes us sweat._  
_What happens in the tavern,_  
_where money is host,_  
_you may well ask,_  
_and hear what I say._  
  
_Some gamble, some drink,_  
_some behave loosely._  
_But of those who gamble,_  
_some are stripped bare,_  
_some win their clothes here,_  
_some are dressed in sacks._  
_Here no-one fears death,_  
_but they throw the dice in the name of Bacchus. (1)_

("In taberna quando sumus" [English: "When we are in the tavern"], Carmina Burana, 13th century, translation from Classical.net)

 

 

May 21, 1648

 

“A drink with us perhaps, Monsieur Marchal (2)?”

 

De Rohan invites the new recruit to the Pennier Vert, an inn at the Rue de Vaugirard, where Musketeers often gather. The owner is an ancient man named Serge, who claims he was cook at the Musketeer Garrison when Captain d’ Artagnan was still a cadet. Now he sits in an old creaking armchair silently observing all the comings and goings, while his middle-aged son-in-law, Firmin, runs the place.

 

The recruit nods, “Gladly, Messieurs…”

 

It has been almost two weeks since the young agitator from the Court of Miracles, who hurled stones with his sling against the carriages of the Great Minister and the Queen Regent, joined the Musketeer Garrison. His is a strong arm and a focused mind. Too focused and single-minded at times, de Thierry pointed out to de Rohan, whom the Captain assigned to train his young recruit.

 

“Well, he is determined to win every swordfight…” de Rohan agreed. His student’s single-mindedness concerned him also. A Musketeer cannot rely just on raw strength. A Musketeer is not a mindless killer.  

 

“He is strong but he cannot compare with your swift swordplay, my friend,” de Rohan observed. De Thierry is not perhaps the Best Swordsman in France, as is de Rohan, but he is nimble, agile, and deadly. He also holds the title of Best Sharpshooter among all royal regiments, including the Musketeers.

 

**** 

“Cards, Messieurs?”

 

De Thierry deals. The three of them sit around a table at the back of the Pennier Vert. Old Serge seated close by, gives them a long disapproving look, as he does to everyone. No one can be as good as the Musketeers he once served. They play a while in silence, except for the occasional comment on the game. Monsieur Marchal is focused on winning once more.

 

“So, Marchal,” de Thierry exclaims, shuffling the deck of cards with exceptional dexterity, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Time for a bet. Three-card trick. Ten rounds. Find the Lady…”

 

De Rohan knows this look in his friend’s eyes. This will get very interesting very soon, he thinks. De Thierry is a talented card player but at “Find the Lady” he is unbeatable. “How on earth do you do this?” de Rohan once asked his companion mesmerized. “Experience and practice, as with everything else,” de Thierry shrugged. De Rohan has always wondered how someone raised by nuns and as refined as de Thierry could ever be “experienced and practiced” at a card game played by street urchins, pickpockets, and thieves.

 

Ten rounds, and Marchal loses all.

 

“Again,” he grunts.

 

Five more rounds. He loses again.

 

“Five more…” he demands.

 

“Marchal,” de Rohan interjects, unwilling to see the young recruit waste his meager wages on a card game he can never win. “Perhaps another game?” He gazes at de Thierry half-irritated, half-imploring. Enough of this, he wants to tell his comrade! The boy is young and raw but he does not need to be taunted in this manner.

 

De Thierry is not a cruel man. He can be demanding of new recruits, and occasionally unforgiving, but he is not heartless. He lowers his eyes at his friend’s remark, clearly embarrassed to be carried away thus.

 

“I agree. A different game…”

 

“No, Messieurs!” the young recruit exclaims with eagerness. “Do not protect me from my own arrogance. Besides, I must know how he does this…”

 

De Rohan laughs, filling Marchal’s cup with wine. “Ah… don’t we all! Believe me, you will never win this one, friend. We have all failed.”

 

“Corbleu! I have never seen anything like this,” Marchal retorts. He sounds less tense, as if sharing the same fate at cards with a man like de Rohan makes him finally feel at home. “But I have heard about it. Back at the Court of Miracles, there is a woman named Flea. They say no one can beat her. She trains many in her army of thieves…” He pauses immediately, looking at de Thierry in disbelief. He dares not ask. Still, the question hangs in the awkward silence.  

 

 

 

> _Were you ever part of Flea’s army?_

 

“I was raised in a house for orphans at Bicetre,” de Thierry replies to Marchal’s unasked question. It sounds believable, Marchal tells himself. But it is not the truth. No orphan raised by Sisters of Charity plays cards like this, if they play at all. There is something about de Thierry that Marchal finds at once appealing and unsettling but he cannot define it. Then again, everyone here has secrets, including himself.

 

De Rohan shuffles the deck of cards. “Lansquenet?” he proposes cheerfully.

 

Marchal attempts to change the conversation: “Word among the recruits is that one of the celebrated Four will be visiting the Captain…” He sounds more comfortable now. Less tense. No longer obligated to prove himself to his new comrades.

 

“General du Vallon visits often,” de Thierry says, sorting his hand carefully.

 

“Oh no. Not the General… The one who was Captain of the Musketeers before the Captain…”

 

“Athos?” de Thierry sounds aghast. He lands his hand open on the table, inadvertently revealing it.

 

*****

“I was not aware you knew the Comte de la Fère,” de Rohan observes as he walks alongside de Thierry to the Musketeer barracks, having left Marchal at the barracks of the recruits. “If anyone should be apprehensive of an encounter with the man, it should be me…”

 

“Does he know you, then?” de Thierry’s voice is inscrutable.

 

De Rohan has learned from his Captain never to fear the truth. “No, I do not believe he knows I exist,” he says. “But he knew my father well. They were cousins and friends in their early youth (3)…My father was not an easy man. He cared little about family. He was not a man to sustain a friendship.”

 

De Thierry remains silent for a while as if he weighs every word he is about to speak. “I have never met the Comte de la Fère,” he says finally, “but I would like to meet him.” His voice is quiet and measured. De Rohan does not detect the excitement of an ardent admirer of the great Musketeer. Quite the opposite. But since his friend does not continue, de Rohan decides there is no reason to probe further. Besides, the Comte de la Fère’s return to Paris and his visit to the Garrison are probably no more than rumors started at the barracks of the recruits. On the other hand, there was the letter he delivered to the Marquis du Vallon. The letter he handed to his charming daughter…

 

The two friends part outside their quarters.  

 

“See you tomorrow.”

 

De Rohan finds it hard to sleep. Perhaps it is the possibility of meeting the man whose title of Best Swordsman in France he now holds. Perhaps it is the memory of his father: the father who died before he was born pierced by the swords of the celebrated Four. The man who reached too high becoming First Minister, the man who betrayed his country and attacked his Queen, the man whose dark heritage de Rohan has strived to put behind him although he knows it will always haunt him. From next door, he can hear de Thierry. Another nightmare… It happens often but his friend does not talk about it. Every man has a right to his secrets, de Rohan reckons.  

 

****

De Thierry wakes up with a jolt. He closes his eyes but it is impossible to shirk the fear and anguish the recurrent dream arouses. The images repeat in his mind although he is no longer dreaming…

 

 

> _.... “On your feet!” the nun’s stern voice reveals a streak of pure cruelty. The child, barely six years old, stands up trembling._
> 
> _She is freezing._
> 
> _She is starving._
> 
> _She is angry._
> 
> _Around her about a dozen pairs of eyes stare back, some terrified, some tearful, but most full of contempt and derision._
> 
>  
> 
> _“Stand up on the bench, child!” the nun orders, and the girl silently obeys. She feels the stinging of injustice in her heart and the burning of tears behind her eyes. “I shall not cry,” she tells herself._
> 
>  
> 
> _“Obstinate, sinful creature!” the nun exclaims. “Spawn of the Devil himself!” She strikes her walking stick against the wooden bench and the girl stirs, terrified. “I am not scared. I shall not cry,” she repeats trying to appear unaffected._
> 
> _The nun points at the girl with her walking stick as if repulsed by her very existence. “This creature here is the offspring of Sin! The offspring of Demons! We must pity her! We must pray for her wretched soul! And we must break her arrogance and sinful resolve or she will burn in hell for all eternity…”_
> 
>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Original Latin text: 
> 
> In taberna quando sumus,  
> non curamus quid sit humus,  
> sed ad ludum properamus,  
> cui semper insudamus.  
> Quid agatur in taberna  
> ubi nummus est pincerna,  
> hoc est opus ut queratur,  
> si quid loquar, audiatur.
> 
> Quidam ludunt, quidam bibunt,  
> quidam indiscrete vivunt.  
> Sed in ludo qui morantur,  
> ex his quidam denudantur  
> quidam ibi vestiuntur,  
> quidam saccis induuntur.  
> Ibi nullus timet mortem  
> sed pro Baccho mittunt sortem.
> 
> (2) Fabien Marchal is a major (fictional) character in the series “Versailles.” He is the “Chief of Security” (something like Captain of Musketeers,) for King Louis XIV in that series.
> 
> (3) For this backstory look at “Past Forgotten, Past Remembered” posted on AO3.


	7. The Brotherhood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The character of Lucien here follows two fan-fiction stories that form the backdrop for the events that unfold in 'Twelve Years After'.
> 
> 'To hell with circumstances....' Lucien's backstory
> 
> 'Whoever tells the story tells the tale' This is a series of stories told from Lucien's point of view or those who know him - occurring between the episodes in S2 and S3.
> 
> Sophia's story begins in 'a plain, unvarnished tale...'

At six and half feet, Gerard du Mesnil was a big man - barrel chested, the swelling muscles in his arms and sturdy legs straining against the inflexible constraints of leather tunic and trousers, shoulders like the oak beams used to build the ocean going ships he had crewed for many years. As a sailor, he was part of a unique brotherhood of men - who come to know the frailty and insignificance of their lives under the aching beauty and annihilating power of the open seas - bound by a common purpose extending beyond one ship or even one age. Those who are outside this bond see it as obligation. Those who are a part of it see this bond as privilege.

It had been many years since Gerard du Mesnil had set foot on one of Lucien Grimaud’s ships or followed him into the fight on the deck of an enemy vessel. But when he learned of the man’s search for his missing child, he lifted the wife he adored to the level of his face to give her a tender kiss and left the warmth of his kitchen to walk the neglected and depraved streets of the city and help him.

There was a soft tap on the door and Gerard stepped into the night. He handed a small packet to the man waiting for him, ‘she says these are your favorites.’

Lucien Grimaud chuckled and bit into a warm pastry, murmuring his thanks. He turned to continue the walk, Gerard falling into step beside him. They were silent as they moved through the streets. They would be out all night.

‘How do they fare?’ asked Gerard, limping slightly as he walked alongside Lucien. ‘Juliette is most concerned about Sophia.’ Years earlier, he had been injured beyond the capability of crewing on ships or working the crane and wagon crews on the docks. Lucien had asked him to consider working for a young lady, blinded in childhood, who had inherited her father’s small tavern and inn and needed a trusted worker. He liked the work, fell in love with the lady, married her and found a home.

‘She is busy with the abbey records, and the men have covered half of the estate,’ Lucien answered, ‘she is well, focused and taking care.’ Gerard nodded – relieved. Their wives were close friends.

The first days following the discovery of the empty coffin had been difficult. As he took Sophia away from the cemetery, sobbing and hysterical, he sent Henri for the doctor. He had carried her into the house, amidst a flurry of consternation from the children and servants running from all parts of the manor to assist him – not knowing what had happened.

He had stood at the back of the room as the doctor attended to her. Flexing his fists and agitated with confusion, anger, and worry he resisted the urge to pace or hit something. He tried to concentrate on listening to what the doctor was saying to her. When finished, the man turned to him, removed his glasses and wiped them clean before talking. It was an absent gesture – a habit designed to help collect his thoughts before speaking. He handed Lucien a small vial.

‘I’m going to leave the laudanum with you,’ the doctor said. ‘She refuses it now, although she would be better if she could sleep. I understand you know to use it sparingly.’ Lucien nodded at him and pocked the vial.

‘She must rest and be coaxed to eat,’ the doctor continued. ‘It may be a long time until you have resolved the situation. She must hold onto her strength or illness could follow.’

‘Do you know who might have attended on her at the time of the child’s birth?’ Lucien asked him. ‘Midwives, other country women or healers.’ This doctor was new to the area – only 10 years in the district. The man shook his head.

‘Not specifically – no. But I am going to check the records of my predecessor for any notations. I know midwives and others who might have been at the abbey,’ the doctor said. ‘I will make inquiries.’

The doctor left, and he walked back to the bed, lowering and sliding his long frame next to hers, leaning against the pile of pillows and pulling her against him. She turned into him, resting her head on his chest her arm encircling him. He kissed her forehead and closed his eyes trying to quiet his racing heart and competing thoughts.

‘We will find her,’ he said softly. ‘I swear to you, we will find her.’

Henri recruited several trusted men and they were systematically searching the district, every tenant farm and village, for a family who had a daughter of the right age or had taken in a baby. Word would spread quickly between the farms and villages. A large map covering his desk in his study was used to chart their progress.

They had gone to the abbey – the place where the baby was born. The priest listened to them and sighed with sadness, ‘I do not know what to say Madame. You were unwed? Very ill? Perhaps those in attendance thought they were doing right by the infant?’ Lucien narrowed his eyes, stood and wandered to the window. The priest’s eyes followed him.

‘Did Sister Agatha keep a diary? Or the priest? I want to see every record or document from that time,’ Sophia spoke carefully, managing her impatience, ‘There may be a record of where she was sent – to a family or an orphanage.’ Lucien stood by the window, watching the nuns work in the yard, his fingers laced behind his back. The women had pinned back their wimples and tied up their heavy robes, swinging picks and hoes to break rocks and dig up stones. They were preparing a small acreage for planting.

‘We do not allow that,’ the priest said. ‘I will look for a record of the birth and report to you.’

Sophia started to protest, ‘you may miss something. We can do it together,’ she appealed to the holy man who shook his head, ‘I’m sorry Madame – it cannot be done.’

Lucien turned from the window and spoke softly, ‘in addition to full access to the diaries and records, we will want to interview every nun who was here at the time or has come since then. Priests too.’ The priest opened his mouth to object and hesitated – as Grimaud locked eyes with him. For a moment, there was silence – only the steady thump of picks cracking and breaking hard rock.

‘Perhaps….,’ the priest started, but Lucien interrupted, ‘please show us the chamber where her Grace and our daughters may work.’

Now, while the estate and the abbey were being searched, he was in Paris - checking orphanages. But he was looking farther and deeper than orphanages. He was turning the underbelly of Paris inside out in search of his daughter.

Lucien strode down the cobbled street, avoiding the puddles, horse droppings and random litter. Houses, the color of mud and taller storied dark buildings leaned haphazardly toward each other, hovering over the narrow streets. No trees or spots of green or flowered garden relieved the dull dead colors of this dark world or sweetened the air. His eyes flickered to the sleeping drunks, a line of broken dolls slumped against a wall in a dark alley. Both men slowed their step to look closely at the clusters of women or children huddled together for warmth and trying to sleep in shallow doorways. Buyers and sellers of sin and debauchery strolled past, and carriages, their wheels clattering on cobblestones, carried noble men, fortified with alcohol and drugs, seeking the special talents of the ladies at Madame Carlier’s maisons de tolérance. His chest tightened as he studied the sleeping coveys of abandoned or orphaned children. As cold and cruel as an institution of charity could be – it was, for those without the protection of a father, better than where many children often found themselves.

He knew well the nine streets at this district –a maze of dark and twisting streets, designated by the city fathers to confine all manner of lascivious desire and vice fantasized by a man or a woman. He knew where to find the purveyors of erotic specialties, opium houses, and where boys, girls, men and women plied their trade outside the comforts and protections of Madame Carlier’s establishment. Could she have ended up here? Who would he find when he found her?

‘Where are we meeting him?’ asked Gerard. ‘The Blue Boar,’ replied Lucien.

Gerard grimaced. It was one of the most disreputable taverns in the district. As they approached the decaying structure they could see a fight going on outside the open door – light illuminating the staggering bloody men. Fists raised, they circled each other warily, dirty from the muddy street - wet with discarded ale, rain, piss and blood - while bets were placed on the outcome. Bystanders – men with arms around scantily dressed and painted women - their arms crooked to rest an elbow on a man’s shoulder – laughed as bawdy cheers and vulgar insults flew. Lucien looked at the women, stepped around the fight, and walked into the tavern.

It was crowded and noisy, the air thick with the stale smell of many unwashed bodies, tobacco, cheap wine and ale, rancid grease and cooking food. A weak fire sputtered in the hearth, the floor gritty under his boots with dirty straw. Women tried to weave their way among the tables to deliver their loaded trays and avoid the groping hands of men - who slid their eyes toward the two men who walked through the door and then looked away.

The man Lucien was looking for stood up and he shouldered his way through the room to the back table – eyes flicking to every woman he passed. He dropped into a chair. Gerard sat behind him, against the wall, keeping his eyes on the room.

‘Cartouche,’ said Lucien, ‘can we not get a table closer to an open door or window?’ He was talking to the most infamous pickpocket and thief in Paris – who laughed and pointed behind him to the door leading into the kitchen and the back alley.

‘Better to see the city guard coming in and have time to get out,’ remarked the man who had a special talent for eluding the law.

‘You are forgetting basic rules Grimaud – country life has made you soft.’ Lucien snorted and signaled to the girl for wine.

‘I just prefer to breathe only air,’ he replied sourly. There was truth in what the thief said. He glanced at the massive man next to him. Gerard accompanied him on these nightly tours – to find his daughter and to temper any flares of rage from her father. Cartouche was right - even with the knowledge that his child was stolen from him with unknown outcome, he could not summon the blinding rage and violence that had marked his earlier years – with murderous consequence. The demon he fought was fear that their search was hopeless.

‘Have you learned anything?’ Cartouche ran the largest network of pickpocket gangs in Paris – many of which were organized bevies of chattering quick fingered children and beguiling young women.

‘Numerous!’ said the master thief, shaking his head, ‘the age, the description is vague Lucien – dark or blue eyes, probably dark hair, mid height - this describes too many. If we had a birthmark or other identifying feature it would be better.’

Lucien nodded his agreement and lifted a hand helplessly. In Paris, the numbers of young women the age of his daughter would be in the hundreds if not thousands.

Cartouche continued, ‘Of those I have found – none have a story to match what you have told me – but there are some who do not remember much of their childhood. I do not think we have her yet.’

‘I assume you will want to talk to these girls and decide for yourself,’ said the thief. Lucien nodded, rubbing his face. Cartouche leaned toward him.

‘Take heart Grimaud. This is your clever and resourceful daughter we seek – not some stupid, weak-willed, helpless girl.’ Grimaud smiled – thieves were known to be optimistic about their risky and ill-advised occupation – it trickled into every venture they attempted. Still – he welcomed the man’s words.

‘You have spoken of the reward,’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ said Cartouche, draining his glass and standing to leave, ‘don’t eat the food here – the meat is rancid. You go to Madame Carlier’s tonight?’ Lucien shook his head.

‘Madame Francine’s establishment,’ he replied, ‘we will talk to her girls tonight.’ He winked at the master thief, ‘she has a better chef.’

Cartouche grinned, ‘I remember! I also have a message for you.’

Lucien looked up, expectantly. ‘Flea wants to see you,’ said the thief, ‘and you know she won’t come here,’ he waved his hand at the grimy room and rowdy occupants, laughing, ‘the lady has standards.’

‘As well she might,’ said Lucien following his look. He had sent men to inquire and search in the Court. He hoped Flea wanting to see him personally might be good news.

He was tired and worry seeped deep into him – there was an aching stiffness in his limbs and a persistent knot in his gut. He awaited a message from Sophia as to the progress of the search in the district and the abbey. He hoped the girl would be discovered in one of the tenant farms or villages. He dreaded what he might find if she had been sent to Paris. She might be among the clusters of women huddled for warmth in a shop doorway, or at the mercy of a brothel madam or man. Or – she had already starved to death, or perished in the cold of winter, or died feverish and shaking on a bug-infested mattress from any one of the diseases that coursed through the filthy and overcrowded quarters of the city.

He narrowed his eyes at the bawdy scene before him – a landscape littered with the lost, poor, and friendless - and tightened his mouth. If she had ended up on the streets of Paris - and survived… he didn’t care what she might have had to do. He had also done what was needed to survive. She had been alone – without him to protect her. But she was not alone now - he would not give up the search for her.

‘Keep looking,’ he said firmly to Cartouche. ‘I’ll go to the Court tomorrow. I have another meeting tonight.’ Gerard, silent and listening up to this point looked at him questioning.

‘An old friend wants to meet – it seems she has need of a ship.’


	8. A Son's Heritage

**Author: Mordaunt**

_Ὦ παῖ, γένοιο πατρὸς εὐτυχέστερος,_  
_τὰ δ᾽ ἄλλ᾽ ὅμοιος…_

 _Ah, son, may you prove happier than your father,  
_ _but in all else like him…_

_(Sophocles, Ajax, lines 550-551)_

 

_September, 1648_

 

The leaves of the tall sycamore trees flanking the house were turning the color of rust when they arrived. Paris was no longer their destination. A messenger reaching them halfway diverted their journey to Blois, to the Château de Bragelonne instead. Raoul was not at all disappointed. He has been curious to see the place ever since his suspicions were confirmed, that the old friend from France who wrote to his mother for years and finally visited them in Venice, is in fact, his father, the Comte de la Fère.

 

He rides next to the Comte and his mother’s carriage, breathing in the fragrance of roses and distant rain. No jasmine or honeysuckle here. No salty breeze from the sea. Here it is groves and green fields, singing rivulets, and streams. It is neat small villages and beautiful châteaux with well-trimmed lush gardens scattered in the quiet, tame landscape of the Loire.

 

“Over there you can see La Vallière,” the Comte de la Fère observes as they pass by a small estate. The house is difficult to see, hidden behind a curtain of poplars. “It is our neighboring estate,” the Comte explains. “It belonged to the Marquis de la Vallière who passed away some years ago. His widow married the Marquis de St. Rèmy, valet of the Duc d’ Orlèans, so the family has moved to Blois. They visit occasionally, but the estate is mostly empty.” (1)

 

Bragelonne stands on a low hill, shaded by yellowing sycamore trees, a large white house with slanted roofs and elegant turrets on all sides. The Comte helps his wife out of the carriage.

 

“What do you think, Alessandra?” he asks. She narrows her large green eyes basking in the soft light of the setting sun.

 

“Anne!” she says turning her head towards the Comte with a smile. “The name should be Anne from now on…” The Comte responds, the same playful smile reflected in his bright, hazel eyes: “Of course! Anne…” There is much that is unsaid between them and Raoul cannot always comprehend their meaning. Perhaps not all his mother’s stories of her life in France were invented. Much of his mother’s correspondence from France addressed her as “Anne” or “Milady de Winter.”

 

“Who was this man, de Winter, mother?” he inquired when he first saw the name inscribed on a letter with the seal of the Queen of France.

 

“A good man, who perished in the hands of an unscrupulous and powerful one,” was her response (2).  Raoul did not think he should investigate further. He was certain of one thing even back then: de Winter, whoever he was, was not his father.

 

The rest was in the stories his mother told him and in other stories that remained untold.

 

Now “Anne de Winter” walks ahead of him, strolling around the estate’s neat park, holding the arm of the Comte de la Fère, the man once known as Athos, Captain of the King’s Musketeers. His Father. Somewhere in this park there is a mausoleum with the graves of an infant girl, his stepsister, and her mother, a young woman named Sylvie, with whom his father lived for a while after the war.

 

Raoul should be resentful, but he cannot find it in his heart. Instead, he finds compassion. This man, his father, is warm and affectionate, well-traveled and erudite, brilliant and fascinating. This man, his father, survived one of the bloodiest wars. This man, his father, deserved some solace after all the death he witnessed. His mother thinks the young woman, Sylvie, was the best thing for him. It is just… It is just that Raoul wishes this man, his father, had been with him all along.   

 

“Over there,” the Comte says, pointing towards a grove of oak trees in the distance, “is a small wilderness between our estate and La Vallière. It belongs to no one and no one has ever claimed it. There is a little stream there and you can find deer. We can go hunting …”

 

Raoul nods with a smile. “I would love to, Monsieur.”

 

“And you can of course ride anywhere in the estate beyond this park.” He sounds somewhat apologetic, as he adds, “I take great pride in my parterres!”

 

“You? A gardener?” Raoul’s mother sounds genuinely surprised and entertained at the thought. The Comte kisses her hand. “Madame, there is a lot you do not know about me!” he declares a glint in his eyes, leading them all back to the house where dinner is already prepared.

 

****

 

“Join me Raoul?” the Comte suggests in the morning. It is early, right after breakfast. Raoul’s mother has letters to write.

 

The Comte does not take Raoul hunting. Instead, he leads the young man to a small chapel inside the château. “When I was but a few years younger than you,” the Comte begins, “my father, whose namesake you are, for he was called Raoul, took me to the royal crypt at St. Denis to visit the tomb of King Henry. It was a family ritual and he followed it to the letter. My father was a man who valued tradition. There he made me take an oath in the presence of our dead King: to serve royalty, to serve the new King, to serve France, to always do my duty, and to uphold our family honor. He told me royalty is not the same as a King, for a King is but a man. Royalty, my father said, is divine…” (2)

 

“I suppose this makes sense to a Frenchman,” Raoul interjects. He sounds thoughtful and apologetic. “I fear I was raised in Venice...” (3)

 

“Exactly,” the Comte retorts. “That is why, we are not in St. Denis. That is why I will tell you something altogether different. That and the fact that your mother will never forgive me if I do not,” he adds.

 

The Comte reaches next to the bench where they are seated. He draws a magnificent sword, the likes of which Raoul has only seen in the collection of his uncle Domenico, who is the Doge of Venice (4). “This is a family heirloom, Raoul,” the Comte explains. “It is the Hauteclere (2). It is a powerful sword. Men in my family have carried it with honor for generations. Now it is yours. It is my wish that this sword, alongside everything I own passes on to you and your descendants…”

 

“Monsieur…” the young man begins with apprehension, but Athos stops him.

 

“I no more care about oaths Raoul. The oath I took that day at St. Denis marked most of my life and not in the best way. For you see, I was too young, too foolish, and too eager. I misunderstood the oath. I misunderstood my father’s meaning. He was a kind and affectionate man. I wish I had understood this while there was still time. I wish I had never thought affection and kindness as signs of weakness, for they are the exact opposite.”

 

The Comte’s voice is solemn, albeit full of feeling. “I was never father to you until now, Raoul. I have no right to demand any oath from you. I am not sure I even have a right to give you advice. I will just tell you the one thing I have learned: if it is meaning and purpose you seek, it is only in friendship and in love that you can find it. You asked me once what is worth fighting for. Friends and those you love…”

 

The Comte has barely finished his sentence before he finds himself in Raoul’s tight embrace. “Forgive me Monsieur,” says the young man releasing the gentleman, his voice denoting deep embarrassment. “It must be the Venetian in me. But Monsieur, it is also something I wanted to do all my life. Embrace my father. Perhaps one day I will learn to be more restrained but now, at this moment, permit me to be as foolish and as eager as you once were, in my own manner.”

 

Raoul kneels in front of his father now. “I will take an oath, Monsieur,” he declares, his clear voice echoing to the recesses of the small stone chapel. “That I will love you, that I will live a life of purpose, a life of loyalty, and that I will honor your name, and the heritage this sword carries with it!”

 

“Rise then,” says the Comte full of emotion. “Rise, Vicomte de Bragelonne and let us embrace once more!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The Château de la Vallière is located at Reugny. The historical Louise de la Valliére spent part of her childhood there. Dumas makes Louise de la Valliére a childhood friend of Raoul de Bragelonne. They are raised at neighboring estates in his novel "Twenty Years Later." The story here maintains only part of that original Dumas storyline. I also keep the description of both the estates of La Valliere and Bragelonne as close to Dumas as possible. 
> 
> (2) See “Past Forgotten, Past Remembered.”
> 
> (3) There were no kings in Venice. It was a republic (called La Serenissima: The Most Serene), a city state, ruled by an oligarchy of merchants and aristocrats who elected a leader called “Doge.” 
> 
> (4) Doge of Venice: title of the chief magistrate and leader of the Republic of Venice between 726 and 1797.


	9. In the Grove of Nymphs

**Author: Mordaunt**

 

 _When Daphne from faire Phoebus did flie,_  
_The West winde most sweetly did blow in her face:_  
_Her silken Scarfe scarce shaddowed her eyes,_  
_The God cried, O pitie, and held her in chace,_  
_Stay Nimph, stay Nimph, cryes Apollo,_  
_Tarry, and turn thee, Sweet Nimph stay,_  
_Lion nor tyger doth thee follow:_  
_Turn thy faire eye and look this away._  
_O turn O prettie sweet,_  
_And let our red lips meet:_  
_Pittie O Daphne, pittie O pitty me._  
_Pittie O Daphne pittie me._

_(Anonymous, 17 thc.) _

Raoul turns his horse towards the unclaimed grove of oak trees between his father’s estate and La Vallière. He longs for some shade after a good gallop in the sun and he knows his horse will be happy with fresh water from the stream. It is deeper than he thought, this grove, and darker than he imagined. The thick foliage is reflected in the soft murmuring waters of the stream, which snakes away towards the fields in the distance, rippling around glistening rocks and falling tangles of branches. It is strangely quiet in the shade of those ancient oaks. Raoul allows his horse to walk aimlessly as he breathes in the coolness and serenity of the place.

 

It sounds like some bird at first. A pleasant trill.  The beginning of a song. But it is clearly laughter. Girls. Laughing. Raoul gently leads his horse towards them, the sound of its hooves muffled by the deep mossy soil.

 

“Oh no Aure! Careful!” cries one of them. She rides on a magnificent black horse. Her back is turned so Raoul can only see her silk golden curls flowing to her waist under her pale blue riding hat.

 

The other girl, whose horse, a pretty white mare is tied to a branch, leans over the bank of the stream with a stick trying to catch something that has fallen into the water. A glove? A hat? Raoul strains over his horse to see: a fine white silk scarf...

 

“Oh, I cannot reach it from here!” cries the girl with the stick, raven-haired, her face luminous, flushed, her coal black eyes animated with mischievous resolve. Before Raoul can even venture to intervene, she kicks off her shoes, raises her lush red silk skirts and steps into the stream laughing.

 

What was that verse? Raoul asks himself….

  

 

> _“Diana was no more pleasing to her lover  
>  __when by chance he saw her divine beauty  
>  __in the midst of icy waters…”_   (1)

 

“Oh Aure!” her fair companion exclaims! “Oh! You will ruin your dress! Madame will be so angry!”

 

Raoul approaches now, making his presence known. “Mademoiselle,” he addresses the raven-haired girl standing in the stream. “Please, let me help you!”

 

“Oh, Monsieur knight errand!” she retorts waving the silk scarf and laughing, “you are too late!”

 

Raoul dismounts and reaches out to assist her as she steps along the slippery bank of the stream. “I apologize then, for my inexcusable delay,” he says.

 

“Do not worry! We live very secluded lives, Monsieur!  We love a little adventure!” she exclaims with excitement. “Is this not so, Louise?” she adds turning to her companion.

 

It is only then that Raoul looks upon the girl on the black horse.

 

The girl called Louise.

 

“Forgive my dear friend, Monsieur!” The girl’s voice is melodious and gentle. She lowers her eyes as she speaks, her long eyelashes touching her soft blushing cheeks. When she looks up again, her gaze is the color of the summer sky.

 

Mercilessly Petrarch’s verse continues in Raoul’s mind…

 

>   
>  _“…than, to me, the fresh mountain shepherdess,  
>  set there to wash a graceful veil,  
>  that ties her vagrant blonde hair from the breeze…”_ (1)

 

“It appears, our brave knight errand, had his voice stolen in this fairy stream and he cannot introduce himself!” teases the girl called Aure, now mounted on her horse.

 

“No, Mesdemoiselles,” Raoul protests, although he feels as if he has just awaken from a dream. He bows deeply. “My name is Raoul… Raoul Andrè Auguste, Vicomte de Bragelonne…” (2)

 

“The Comte de la Fère’s mysterious son from Venice?” the raven-haired girl retorts with excitement. “We have been looking forward to meeting you, Monsieur ever since we learned about you! You are the most exciting thing that has happened to our provincial existence, here in Blois!” She gives a meaningful look to her companion who blushes deeply, as she adds: “I am Nicole Anne Constance de Montalais but everyone calls me Aure (3), and my companion, who thinks my shameless behavior has tainted her in your eyes, is Mademoiselle Françoise Louise de la Vallière… but everyone calls her Louise!” (4)

 

Raoul bows again with a smile, “I am honored to meet you both!”

 

“We are not to remain here long,” Mademoiselle Montalais explains, “or we would make sure you are invited at La Vallière! But the Duchess allowed us only this one day of freedom…” she sounds disappointed. “We are both in the service of her daughters at Blois…”

 

“Vicomte,” Louise interjects in her soft melodious voice. “You must really forgive my friend’s forward manner. I fear we must be returning home. We ride back to Blois this afternoon. It was indeed an honor to have met you.”

 

She gently prods her horse and gallops away with the ease of an excellent horsewoman. “You must visit us at Blois!” Mademoiselle Montalais calls out to Raoul as both girls ride away towards La Vallière.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Petrarch 1304-1374, The Canzionere, 52, transl. A.S. Kline, 2002  
> (2) Raoul’s full name in Dumas is Raoul Auguste Jules (see, "Man in the Iron Mask," Porthos’ will.) In this story because Milady’s background is imagined to be different than in Dumas, there is a slight change that will be explained later in the story.  
> (3) Mademoiselle Montalais: Nicole Anne Constance. Dumas calls her “Aure.” She was lady in waiting at the court of Gaston d’ Orlèans at Blois and a companion of Louise de La Valliere. In 1661 she joined the retinue of Henriette, Duchess of Orlèans (wife of King Louis XIV’s younger brother, Philippe.) Montalais had a taste for intrigue and was involved in some scandalous affairs at Versailles.  
> (4) Mademoiselle de la Vallière: Françoise Louise de la Baume Le Blanc (1644-1710) was royal mistress of Louis XIV between 1661-1667 and bore him four children. She was replaced by Madame de Montespan, retired from court life in 1670, and took the veil in 1674. Dumas invents a childhood relationship between her and his Raoul Bragelonne that turns deadly for him. I am not following this arc for Raoul since the character is significantly different.


	10. Old Friends, New Plans

**Author: Mordaunt**

 

_“To me fair friend, you never can be old”_

_(William Shakespeare (1546-1616), Sonnet 104)_

“Let me look at you!”

General du Vallon is an impressive man, in stature and demeanor alike. His sudden visit at Bragelonne was the reason they changed their route coming from Venice. The General lands his enormous hands on Raoul’s shoulders, pushes him back, and gazes at him with a warm, affectionate smile.

“ _Sangdieu_ _!_ ” he exclaims in his deep sonorous voice. “Athos my friend, he is a spitting image of you! Far more refined though, if I may, compared to that first time Aramis and I met you at the Garrison!” He laughs and it echoes in the entire salon—probably the entire château, Raoul reckons.

Athos looks at Raoul with pride. “Of course, Porthos! And refined is not exactly how I would describe myself in those days…”

Raoul is intrigued. “Perhaps Monsieur…” he ventures still overwhelmed by the General, “perhaps…Your Grace…might share the story of your first meeting with my father?”

“Ah, young man,” the General’s serious voice contrasts with the impish glint in his dark eyes, “some stories should remain untold. All I will tell you is that your father claimed I cheated him at cards, and then bet he would win a swordfight against me in three moves…” (1)

“And did he win?” Raoul asks in awe. “I guess that is why they are known as the celebrated Four,” he thinks!

“We both won…” Athos interjects looking at his old friend. “You see Raoul, my foolish bet that day sealed a friendship that has remained strong for over twenty years…” 

“Those were different times, young man,” Porthos says, sitting in a large armchair by the open window. “More straightforward, less complicated…” He sounds sad, but immediately his voice and demeanor light up: “You must visit us at Bracieux! It is right outside of Paris! My son would be thrilled to meet you! His name is Olivier. Your father’s namesake and his godson! You two must become close friends and comrades in arms!” 

Athos takes a seat across his friend as he observes: “Porthos, my friend, Olivier is barely six years old!” He laughs and Raoul smiles despite himself. He has been trying to maintain the restrained and refined air that the General appreciated, but the image of a six-year old child in a Musketeer uniform brandishing a toy sword is quite amusing.

“Well…” the General shrugs. “Start him early, I tell the Marquise! (2) Nothing wrong with that! I told d’ Artagnan the same thing about Alexandre! Now, this excellent young cavalier here,” he adds turning to Raoul. “What do you plan to do with him?”

“I plan nothing,” Athos says quietly. “I expect Raoul to decide his own future. All I can do is offer him all I have…”

Raoul understands his father’s subtlety and trust. “I want to be worthy of it,” he thinks.

“Oh…nonsense!” Porthos exclaims, unaware of all that has passed between father and son. “Nonsense! I have plans for him! I have a position! My aide-de-camp. How is that for a promising career? What do you think, young man?”

This is completely unexpected. Raoul thought he would have more time.

“You do not have to answer immediately, Raoul…” his father says. 

“I am not some muddled child,” Raoul thinks. “At my age these men were already fighting impossible duels and military campaigns!”

“No!” he replies with conviction, “I am honored! Thank you, Your Grace!” He is uncertain about what he just agreed to do. But he is certain he will do it.

“See? Easy!” the General declares as if this was the simplest thing in the world. The Comte de la Fère does not appear altogether pleased.

“Well, Vicomte,” Porthos continues, “you ride back to Paris with me, and we later join the Marechal de Gramont and Monsieur le Prince at Flanders (3). You must begin preparing as soon as possible…”

Raoul stands up. “I should let my mother know, I guess…” he says, his tone tentative. 

*****

 “She is here, then?” Porthos inquires the moment Raoul leaves the room. There is recrimination in his voice and apprehension.

Athos nods. “Indeed. She is a well-connected and powerful ally,” he says quietly. “She is a good mother…”

“I will give her that!” Porthos remarks. “Permit me to have misgivings about the rest…” 

“I would rather you do not voice them, Porthos.” Athos continues in the same quiet tone, the air in the room suddenly taut. “I would ask you never to voice them to Raoul. I would ask you never to voice them to me…”

“I apologize, Athos! I understand there are things a man should never jest about. You know me. I meant no insult. Subtlety is not in my temperament, as the Marquise often reminds me …”

Athos reaches for his friend’s hand with affection, “You are the best man I know, clear-sighted and truthful. But on this one personal matter, Porthos, I prefer to keep my own counsel.” 

“Ah, but there is more isn’t there? You disagree about recruiting Raoul so quickly…?”

Athos sits back in his armchair with a chuckle. “I cannot hide much from you, can I? I was hoping to get to know him better…”

“He is how old now, sixteen? He needs an occupation. Besides, what were you planning to do with him while you and I and your brilliant wife, put our plan to action? I say, keep him as uninvolved as possible, Athos!”

“He asked to be involved…”

“Well that is simply naive, my friend, and I do not care if my assessment offends you. What kind of a career do you envision for your son that begins with defying Queen and Prime Minister?”

“The General has a point…” Milady has been standing at the door for a while it seems. Athos wonders how much of their discussion she has heard.

Porthos and Athos stand up. “Madame,” Porthos says courteously, “welcome back to France…”

She smiles. “You have not changed at all, Your Grace.”

“I am told, Madame, that you have.”

She bows her head elegantly. She is as alluring as the first day Porthos met her. “It remains to be seen, it seems, Marquis,” she says in her taunting, inscrutable voice. She sits next to Athos. “I agree with you, General. For what we plan, it is best to keep Raoul uninvolved…”

Porthos produces a letter from his doublet. “D’ Artagnan confirms that the Duc de Beaufort is still at the Château de Vincennes…”

“So, it is the Duc’s escape we must undertake?” Milady asks.

“He is their most prized prisoner. It will attract their attention. It may finally make the Prime Minister willing to meet. Negotiate. Speak to us…” There is sadness in Porthos’ voice.

“Vincennes is impregnable…” Athos observes.

“Were you two planning an actual siege?” Milady sounds genuinely bemused.

Neither respond. Instead they both lower their gaze looking embarrassed.

Milady turns to Athos in disbelief. “You _were_ telling me the truth! You are two insane old men!” Her laughter eases the tension in the room.

 

“Would you have another recommendation then, Madame?” Porthos is no longer wary of her. Besides, she was always a brilliant strategist.

“I think we need a decoy…” she says. “A slight of hand, a trick of some sort… Make them look one way, while we grab their prisoner under their very noses…”

“We must speak to d’ Artagnan about this…,” Porthos says. “We cannot do this without his assistance…”

“Careful Porthos!” Athos replies. “D’ Artagnan is Captain of the King’s Musketeers. His career, his life, the life of his entire family is at stake…”

“And after the Duc escapes, what then? Where do we go from there? How do we get him on the ship to Venice?” Milady sounds concerned.

 

Athos leads them all to the table. He opens a map of the city. “If we make it past the moat,” he indicates, “they will expect us to escape towards the city and hide in backstreets and alleys until the time comes to escape in disguise or in some other manner. I suggest the exact opposite direction. The Seine…”

“Escape from the river? It is completely reckless…” Porthos says. “I like it!”

“We need some kind of barge or boat… Something ordinary that would not attract the attention of the customs officers,” Athos notes.

 

All three remain silent for a while. It is Milady who breaks the silence. “I know someone!” she declares.

*****

“Do I need to know the someone who will help with the Duc’s escape from the Seine, Alessandra?” Athos asks. It is late. They have been in bed for a while.

She places a playful furtive kiss on his lips. He smiles.

“No, you don’t!” she retorts. “All you need to know is that he will do it.” She stands and goes to her writing table.  She writes:

 

_“Dear Old Friend,_

_It has been many years. I hope life has treated you well since those terrible days. We must speak immediately._

_Meet me in Paris, at the usual place, if it is still there._

_Anne.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) See “Past Forgotten, Past Remembered” posted on AO3. 
> 
> (2) In season 3 she is called “Elodie.” 
> 
> (3) People/events mentioned in the story: 
> 
> The Duc de Beaufort: He appears in Season 3 briefly (The Hunger), but that character has little in common with the historical figure besides a name. 
> 
> History: François de Vendôme (1616-1669), Duc de Beaufort was the grandson of King Henry IV (=father of King Louis XIII) and his royal mistress Gabrielle d’ Estrèes. He was imprisoned at Vincennes in 1643 for plotting with Madame de Chevreuse against Cardinal Mazarin (=Queen Anne’s lover and possible husband, but not the father of either of her sons.) De Beaufort escaped from Vincennes on Whit Sunday (May 31) 1648. He was known as “Roi Les Halles” (King of the Markets,) for his support of the rioting citizens of Paris. In 1653, he made his peace with King Louis XIV and later served him in the Mediterranean. He was killed at the siege of Candia (modern Heraklion, Crete.) Despite all these honors and titles, he was not particularly bright and he was known for his nonchalance and his malapropisms. 
> 
> Dumas: Dumas portrays him as nonchalant and cavalier. His escape from Vincennes on Whit Sunday is a major plotline in “Twenty Years After.” In Dumas, it is organized by Athos, Aramis (who is a Frondeur, a Jesuit, and lover of Madame de Longueville,) and Madame de Chevreuse (Athos’ lover and Raoul’s mother,) and carried out singlehandedly by Grimaud, Athos’ brilliant servant (=not the same character as s3 Grimaud.) De Beaufort is Athos’ ally and friend and intervenes to give Raoul a position as his aide-de-camp after the dramatic turn the young man’s life takes when Louise la Vallière, Raoul’s betrothed and childhood friend, chooses to become royal mistress of King Louis XIV. In Dumas, de Beaufort dies at a campaign in Algiers (not in Crete,) and so does Raoul. My story strays from all this because I must follow the canon of the BBC series where character arcs are significantly different, especially after season 3. When possible however, I try to be faithful to the original material. 
> 
> Marechal de Gramont:  
> History: Antoine de Gramont (1604-1678), Comte de Guiche, later Duc de Gramont was made Marshal of France in 1641. His son was Armand de Gramont (1637-1673) Comte de Guiche. De Guiche was considered the most handsome and elegant man in France (he was the most famous “playboy”,) and was the lover both of Henriette of England and of her husband, the younger brother of King Louis XIV, Philippe d’ Orleans (or Monsieur.)
> 
> Dumas:  
> In “Twenty Years After” Raoul joins the army of Monsieur le Prince (see below) in Flanders. On his way to Flanders, Raoul saves the life of a young officer who turns out to be the Comte de Guiche (the son of the Marshal of France.) De Guiche and Raoul become best friends. De Guiche is in love with Madame Henriette of England. 
> 
> Monsieur le Prince:  
> History: Louis de Bourbon (1621-1686) Duc d’ Enghien, became Prince de Condè upon the death of his father in 1646. Known as “Monsieur le Prince” he fought valiantly at the battles of Rocroy (1643,) Nordlingen (1644,) and Lens (August 1648.) In the autumn of 1648, he threw his military skills behind the royal cause (i.e., against the Fronde.) However, believing that he was insufficiently rewarded for his services he reacted with such arrogance that he alienated both Mazarin and the Queen. He was jailed in the Vincennes in 1650. By 1651 the political situation had changed and Mazarin was forced to release him. He immediately raised an army to rescue the young King from his advisers. He failed, refused to accept the peace of 1653 and fled to Spain where he took part in campaigns against France. He was reinstated in 1659, and retired to his estate in Chantilly. He was recalled to service in 1668 and fought his last battle in 1674. 
> 
> Dumas:  
> In “Twenty Years After” Raoul joins the army of Monsieur le Prince in Flanders. Raoul’s intelligence, foresight, swift decision-making, and the fact that he speaks several languages impress the Prince who takes a great liking to the young man. Later we see the Prince fighting against the Fronde on Mazarin’s side. He and his army escort Athos to Rouen when he is arrested.


	11. Rembrance and Reasons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucien's story is also in 'To hell with circumstances...'

the feeling was without a name like the true colour of light... (from Lekshmy Sujathan) 

‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Gerard. ‘It’s late – you will be riding most of the night if you leave now.’ The big man held the stallion’s bridle as though to forestall his departure. Traveling alone late at night held particular hazards – highwaymen were more likely to strike, the road was potholed and rutted from recent rains and a horse could pull up lame, and distances between inns where help might be found were long. The road could be dangerous – even for Lucien Grimaud. 

‘I have been away long enough,’ said Lucien, putting his booted foot into the stirrup and pulling himself into the saddle. He managed to suppress a groan, but Gerard was not fooled.

‘You are weary my friend,’ he said to Lucien, stepping back and shaking his head at him. ‘We have spent many long nights on the streets.’ 

‘And I thank you for your help,’ Lucien leaned forward to grasp Gerard’s hand. ‘I won’t forget it,’ he promised. ‘You owe me nothing,’ said Gerard. ‘We will keep searching. I will wait to hear from you.’

‘My love to Juliette.’ He raised the reins and the stallion responded briskly. He was tired – Gerard was right - it would be prudent to get a few hours sleep and wait for daylight. But his mind was restless. The meeting with Anne had stirred his memories. Secrets and memories, he thought – what entangled them all were the secrets and memories they shared. 

It had been many years since Jean Armand d’Treville, Athos and the Musketeers has intruded into their lives. Twelve years of relative peace after a turbulent time of death and destruction. He had married the woman he loved. He had children and was a wealthy man. Twelve years ago, he had faced Athos in a fight to the death – for one of them. Few knew the true events of that day under the cathedral. Fewer still knew the real reasons behind anything that had happened during that time – what fueled their rage and their actions. Why had it all occurred? Events had been set in motion not from one source – but many – converging in a terrible moment in time. No one had been spared. 

It had started with a girl. He had fallen in love- with a girl he wasn’t supposed to love – would never be allowed to love. And by some miracle - she had fallen in love with him. And tonight, alone on the road and returning to the place where it had all started - he would allow himself to remember. To look back all the way to the beginning. She had changed the course of his life.

_He had met her when he was stealing food from the kitchen in the big house. He was filling his pockets and he had stuffed a large piece of bread in his mouth. He was almost to the door when she ran through it and into the kitchen. She stopped abruptly and stared at him, blue eyes large. She was younger than he was – maybe six or seven years old. Her hair was a mass of chestnut curls, worn loose and down as was customary for children. They stared at each other. They could hear the cook returning to the kitchen. She quickly pushed him back into the pantry and closed the door. She left the room calling to the cook that her mother wanted to talk about the dinner menu. He made his escape._

_He was hidden in the shrubbery, under the large tree next to the big house. The darkness helped to conceal him from anyone walking by or peering out the window. He had seen the carriages arrive depositing ladies in colorful dresses and dark suited men. The tinkle of glasses and muted conversations floated out the gallery windows._

_‘Uh’ he grunted in pain as something hit the top of his head. A second object fell just next to him. A pair of boy’s boots. Her brother’s boots. He quickly matched the sole to his own foot. Too big but it would do. He didn’t have a pair of shoes. A second pair of smaller boots fell – hers and two jackets, one for him. A bag dropped. He looked up and positioned himself under the tree. She was standing on the window ledge ready to jump to the largest branch and swing herself up onto it. She was so small, and it scared him when she did it. He hoped, if she missed the branch, that he would be able to catch her. She never missed. A few minutes later she was clambering down the tree from branch to branch, landing at his feet. She stood up and they grinned at each other. She quickly pulled on her boots and jacket and they made their way as silently as possible around the house. They crouched behind shrubs and low stone walls until they came to the large open park and then they ran as fast as they could to the wood beyond. Once there they stopped and listened. There were no shouts or calls from the guards._

_There was a thin veil of moonlight that filtered through the trees. They were now in his domain and he led the way moving swiftly and with certainty along familiar paths as they twisted and turned through the trees. He roamed the woods alone and spent most of his time there. He had no friends and the other villagers scorned his mother and him._

_She followed him closely. At times they stopped to check a trap or snare they had set in a concealed place. It was dangerous to hunt in the master’s woods. If caught he could lose a hand or worse, be hanged on the spot. But starvation was a severe taskmaster and drove him to take risks. What good were his hands if he were dead he reasoned._

_The path led them out of the wood and onto a meadow bordering a small lake. They scrambled over rocks to a small concealed beach, bordered on three sides with rock outcroppings. Once there he built a small fire and she emptied out the contents of the bag. The dinner for the party had been sumptuous. She had brought him half a chicken, roast beef, bread, cheese, quarter of a pie._

_He watched as she arranged the food on a cloth restraining himself from grabbing it from her hands. She sat back and waited for him to eat. He carefully put half the food aside. He didn’t know when his mother had last eaten. She never asked where food came from – she just ate whatever he brought to her, eyes wandering aimlessly, shrunken body hunched into a chair._

_He started with the pie which always made her laugh. ‘Dessert first' she teased him. She retrieved the book from the bag and opened it to the place where they had stopped the last time. When he had finished eating, he wiped his fingers on his already dirty pants and took the book from her. She had taught him to read. She had also taught him to write._

_She had a plan. He would go to her father and ask for work. Being able to read and write would impress her father. He could get a job in the stable or kitchens. He would have a place to sleep and food. He never talked about where he lived, or his mother and she did not ask. He didn’t tell her that he slept outside most nights. Men came at night to see his mother, sometimes several at once. Men with blue capes slung over their shoulders or in soldier’s uniform. They brought wine and threw coins on the floor as they left. His mother often had bruises, but she never answered any of his questions. She would finish the wine and sleep. The money never lasted long. Once a soldier, drunk, had rubbed his thin arms and put his hands between his legs. The soldier held up a gold coin. He had let the soldier do what he wanted. Afterwards he threw up and then ran as fast as he could to the lake where he scrubbed his body with sand until it burned. He never told her any of these things._

_It was time to go back. The party would be almost over, and her nurse would come to her room to check on her. She told him to keep the book and practice. He could give it back to her next time. They walked back through the wood and crossed the park to the tree. As he watched, she climbed up and swung back through the open window. She put her head out the window and waved at him.  
_

_There wasn’t a next time. He was approaching the house when he saw blue caped soldiers standing next to two carriages in the driveway. He could hear the shouting coming from inside the house. He crept around the side and peeked into the window. Her mother was struggling at being restrained by two guards. She was crying and pleading with her husband. He was standing at the foot of the stairs, watching a man carry his daughter down the stairs. She was crying, and calling for her mother, kicking her legs and raining her small fists down on the man carrying her. The maid and the nurse followed, both looking uncertain and scared. Trunks were being carried out by servants and loaded onto the carriages. The nurse and maid got into a carriage. The man handed her inside and slammed the carriage door, locking it from the outside. She immediately started hammering her fists against the door and windows. Her father got into the second carriage and they started down the driveway. He could hear her screaming as the carriages rolled away. He sat down and leaned against the house, shaken and breathing hard. He dropped his head into his hands. What had he just seen? Where was she going? Why was her father taking her away?_

_He left the house and went back through the wood to the lake. He climbed over the rocks to the beach and sat on the soft sand looking out over the lake. He opened the bag he had been carrying and pulled out the book. Tears came to his eyes. There were too many soldiers, he was just a boy, how could he have stopped anything. The tears flowed down his cheeks. He lay down on the sand, hugging the book to his thin chest. He closed his eyes and saw her, beating her fists against the carriage and screaming his name - ‘Lucien! Lucien!’_

Her name was Anastasia Elisabeth Louisa Sophia. She was born into the title of Duchess - of the house of d’la Croix – a title waiting for her courtesy of her maternal great grandmother – who had bequeathed her title and fortune to the first direct female descendant of her line. Sophia was a daughter of the aristocracy, from a proud family that extended back through generations to Charlemagne, related to most of the noble houses within the borders of France, including the family currently occupying the throne, more royal than noble.  


Lucien rolled his shoulders, stretching his cramping muscles. How simple it had seemed to them. They were children – unhappy children – but they found refuge in their friendship and Sister Agatha. The abbey became their sanctuary, Sister Agatha their ally against the torments inflicted against Lucien by the villagers for his mother’s occupation and Sophia for her mother’s indifference and her father’s anger.

They had known nothing of the forces that existed before they were born that would begin to align against them. Beyond the barriers of birth and class lay the web of family connections that would ensnare them, betrothals, promises made and broken, the deaths that had destroyed hopes. Deception and lies resulted in her father taking her away for a long absence. By the time she returned, his life had changed completely – except for a few unalterable facts – he was still the bastard son of an army whore and he had never forgotten her. 

_‘Do you know her name?’ he had asked Feron of the woman who’s voice he had heard. He was in Feron’s apartments, delivering the opium the man needed to manage the pain from his twisted body. ‘That is the Duchess d’la Croix,’ Feron’s was slurring and his eyes closing. ‘Treville found her in some God-forsaken place in Persia,’ the drug was taking its effect. He took too much of it thought Lucien as he watched the man slump in his chair. ‘After all these years, she turns up alive. Living like a savage I’m told…’ his voice faded completely._

He followed her – uncertain if he should approach her. Would she remember him? Or care to remember him? She rode out to the estate, alone. Cursing her recklessness and concerned for her safety on the road – he had followed her.

_She had walked to the window, turning the latch and pushing it open. She leaned out the window to look at the ground below and then to the tree that grew a few feet from the ledge._

_‘I hope you are not thinking of trying to scramble down that tree,’ he said. ‘Catching you now would be an entirely different proposition.’ She had not turn around. She did not seemed surprised that he was here. ‘It was you,’ she said, struggling to keep her voice even. ‘In did not the palace.’_

_‘Yes,’ he answered quietly. He could see the tremble of her shoulders, the rise and fall of her breathing. He wanted to go to her, turn her in his arms and hold her to reassure her. But he wasn’t sure. So, he waited, his heart hammering so hard he wondered that she couldn’t hear it._

_She pressed her hands together, hunching her shoulders trying to control their trembling. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ She turned from the window to face him._

_‘I wasn’t sure you would remember me. Or want me to tell you,’ he dissembled and then told the truth, ‘I was afraid.’_

_‘That I wouldn’t remember you?’ she asked, her eyes widening at him in disbelief._

_‘You don’t exactly look happy to see me,’ he said softly, teasing her. She gasped, and her hands came to her cheeks._

_‘Lucien – I never stopped remembering you,’ she whispered, tears overflowing and running down her cheeks. With long strides, he crossed the room to her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, pressing her head to his shoulder. Tears soaked his shirt. He released one hand and shrugged his long coat from his shoulders, placing it around her. Her skin was like ice._

_‘Lucien,’ she murmured. ‘What happened to you? I have so many questions,’ she said into his chest._

_He nodded, fingers stroking her cheek, ‘so do I.’ He lifted her chin to look into her eyes, ‘we have time Rabbit. Or are you planning another vanishing act?’ he was teasing but also questioning. She laughed at the childhood nickname he had given her. It referred to her tactics in avoiding capture by the pursuing maid and nurse._

_'I didn't plan the first one,' she said ruefully. She shook her head, ‘No – I’m here.’ She closed her eyes and felt her body release its tension against his reassuring warmth and strength._

_She sat upright, looking at him thoughtfully, ‘where do we start?’ He smiled at her. He couldn’t stop touching her – brushing her hair from her eyes and trailing his fingers over her cheeks, stroking her arm. He needed to know she was real, his emotions riotous and barely controllable. He took a deep breath, steadying himself._

_‘Let’s take a ride,’ he said._

The road was good – little rutted from the rains. The moon was full and the road illuminated in its pearly light. He was making good progress, the stallion alert, ears rotating forward and back and moving briskly. The dark fields were briefly seen in the moonlight as he rode past and then disappeared into the darkness. Beyond, woods were defined by the tall dark silhouettes of trees. He could hear an owl.

Home – they had both lived on this land – but from different corners. Their first days together – after almost a decade apart had been a journey backwards in time – to the places and memories of their childhood. And to secrets that had been buried for a long time. 

_‘I thought it was here,’ he said, frowning in frustration and twisting to look around him. He bent over, digging through the underbrush. ‘It must be covered over by all this,’ he waved at the offending shrubbery as the excuse for his inability to find his own hunting snares._

_‘Uh huh,’ she replied, non-committal to his excuses. She was leaning against her horse, watching him with interest and smiling in amusement. She took a bite of the apple she was holding._

_‘It’s good you have an alternative occupation,’ she commented, ‘poaching in the lord’s wood doesn’t seem a good option for you anymore,’ she was grinning at him. He stood upright, hands on his hips, scowling and surveying the ground. ‘I was sure it was here,’ he said under his breath. He glowered at her, ‘why don’t you remember where it was?’ he challenged._

_‘I just followed you! Remember?’ She walked towards him, handing him the apple. He took a bite and sighed. ‘I give up.’ She laughed at him again. He narrowed his eyes at her and tossed the apple core into the brush._

_‘My male pride cannot take much more of you giggling at me,’ he cautioned her. Her eyes widened in mock fear and she laughed harder. He shook his head at her, warningly and stepped toward her. Suddenly he was throwing her over his shoulder. She squealed in protest but was still laughing._

_‘Enough,’ he told her firmly and tossed her onto her horse. ‘Do all pirates have such easily wounded pride?’ she asked him, settling into the saddle and trying to suppress her laughter._

_‘Yes,’ he said with mock severity. ‘So, beware my lady.’ He handed the reins to her. She leaned down to him the lights in her blue eyes winking in amusement at him._

_They had been out riding since morning, stopping at the abbey first. The aged and stooped Sister Agatha had been surprised and delighted at their visit, tears appearing in her cornflower blue eyes as Lucien took her hands and planted a kiss on her wrinkled cheek. She and Sophia had met in Paris shortly after Sophia returned, but she had not seen Lucien in many years._

_’Do you remember playing here?’ The old nun asked them. They were walking in the orchard, the woman clinging to Lucien’s arm for support. He slowed his step to accommodate her hesitant gait._

_‘Sophia climbed trees faster than you,’ the old nun teased the man, who was smiling at the memory. ‘She likes to think she did,’ he said playfully. ‘I let her win, or she sulked all day.’_

_‘I never did!’ Sophia objected, ‘I was the most gracious of losers.’ Both Sister Agatha and Lucien laughed at her, the old nun admonishing her, ‘an abbey is bad place to bend the truth my dear.’_

_‘Where have you been all this time Lucien? I have often wondered where you went – after Gatien’s death,’ the nun’s voice saddened at the name of the Musketeer who had come to Lucien’s aid, befriended a poor boy, and at the end of his life, been his benefactor. Together, she and the Musketeer had found the means to educate Lucien – a boy they knew to be intelligent and for whom, despite his impoverished beginnings, they held high hopes. Sophia listened attentively to the stories about the Musketeer who had been crucial to Lucien’s life. Neither she nor Lucien mentioned his current occupation as part of the world of privateers and sanctioned pirates._

_They took their leave, promising to return soon. The old nun had grasped their hands, ‘I see the way you look at each other. It won’t be easy,’ she told them. Sophia blushed and glanced at him. ‘The differences in rank and family are not insignificant impediments,’ the Sister continued, ‘but, I have no doubt that you will find a way to be together. You have always found a way.’  
They had stopped at the lake where Lucien had taught her to swim and where they often retreated to read books or hide from older village boys who harassed him. _

_‘Did you come here often?’ she asked him, ‘after I left?’ He glanced at her and smiled, nodding. This was where Sophia had concocted the plan for him to work for her father. It was where Lucien came the day she had been taken away, holding her book to him, and crying for the loss of her. It was where he had come when he learned of Gatien’s death._

_‘Come on,’ he said, standing and pulling her to her feet. ‘It’s getting late and we still have the woods.’_

_‘And the village,’ she said, stepping into her skirt and fastening the ties. ‘And the castle ruins.’_

_Now, in the late afternoon, they reined in their horses in what would have been in the center of the small village. But, there was no village, only the skeletons of burned buildings overgrown with shrubbery and grasses. It was quiet except for the sounds of birds and the hum of insects. She looked around, puzzled._

_‘What happened here?’ she asked him as he drew up behind her. He sat for a moment, looking towards the woods. He was slow to dismount. ‘Everyone left,’ he replied vaguely. He did not tell her that he had burned the abandoned village to the ground – the day he left for Paris._

_‘This was your home wasn’t it?’ she looked at him, puzzled by his disinterest and impassive expression. He nodded but said nothing. ‘What is it Lucien?’ She could sense his discomfort and stepped towards him, taking his arm and looking up into his face. She frowned trying to decipher the look in his eyes._

_‘I fear it’s a difficult story and you may not want to know it,’ he said lamely. He was filled with uncertainty. He wanted to be truthful with her – there was no other way for them to go forward. But his truth was not pleasant._

_‘I do want to know it,’ she said firmly. ‘The truth – I’m not afraid Lucien. I’m not a child.’ He smiled – she was so young, he thought. How could she be prepared for what he was about to tell her._

_‘You will be the only person who knows the whole story,’ he said lightly, tapping her nose. ‘I can keep your secrets,’ she assured, her blue eyes intent on his. ‘If that is what you wish. Do you trust me?’ she asked him._

_‘With everything,’ he answered immediately, touching her cheek and returning her gaze, eyes gentle, but serious.  
He took a deep breath, ‘I was born here….’_

_An hour later, he stopped and glanced at her. She had asked several questions and had not taken her eyes from him as he recounted the story of his life in the village. She had already known of his hunger, lack of shoes or coats. These were things she had helped provide to him. But the rest - he left nothing out – his mother, blue caped soldiers, the assault in the stable, his rescuer, and how he came to Paris. Tears had formed in her eyes. He saw her tears and stood up abruptly, unexpectedly flooded with old and familiar waves of shame. He turned away roughly from her feeling resentful and angry – he didn’t want her pity._

_‘Lucien,’ she rose also, stepping around to face him. ‘Please, I didn’t know. How could I – we were so young.’ ‘I don’t need your pity now,’ he growled, turning his back to her._

_‘Pity? What is pity but compassion for suffering?’ she cried. ‘I feel…,’ she groped for the right words, ‘…sad and so sorry to know what happened to you. What else could I feel?’ she implored. She reached to touch his stiffened back and tried to turn him, but he twisted away from her._

_‘Stop this,’ she said irritated at his refusal to look at her. ‘You said you trusted me! Now look at me!’ she demanded, moving around him again to grasp his arms and shake him. She was holding his arms, anxiously looking up into his face, tears on her cheeks but he couldn’t speak. He swallowed hard - he hadn’t thought this would be so difficult. Humiliation was coursing through him and he couldn’t look at her._

_‘Please,’ she whispered, ‘look at me. I’m here – please look at me.’ Her voice was breaking with sobs at his unbending stance, arms crossed over his chest, face severe and unreadable. She had never seen him so hard, unreachable and unyielding._

_‘Lucien, please,’ she pleaded, resting her forehead against his shoulder, ‘look at me.’ She reached up to put her arms around his neck, tears dampening his cheek. And without thinking his arms went around her and he was crushing her to him, his tears mingling with hers._

_‘Lucien,’ she whispered, her fingers stroking his hair, her body pressed to his. He was suddenly aware of the feel of her against him, the rapid beat of her heart, her breath warm on his neck and the heat of her slender body between his arms. He reached up to pull her arms from around his neck and looked down into her face, her mouth and full lips so close to his and without thought he leaned down to brush his mouth against hers, molding her mouth to his, sliding his tongue across her lips. She gasped softly, stiffening in his arms, her eyes widening in shock._

_He pulled back and looked at the tears, confusion, and desire that filled her beautiful eyes and face. She was trembling, her eyes darting everywhere but at him._

_He knew that look in a woman’s eyes – when their minds advised caution, but their bodies cried out with desire. He knew how to help resolve that conflict – his body close to hers, his voice soft and teasing, hands idly stroking her arm or back, eyes darkened with passion. He could overcome her defenses even before she knew she needed defenses. He had led many women to his bed who might have thought they ought not to go there. It was always their choice – to trust their desire and he did not disappoint. Is this what he was going to do with her? He dropped his hands._

_‘Well that’s what you get when you trust a pirate,’ he said wryly, struggling to gain control over the naked lust that was raging through him. He smiled soothingly to neutralize the moment between them._

_‘It’s getting late,’ he said picking up his coat and placing it around her trembling shoulders. ‘We should get back before it gets dark.’ He took command of their situation and led her back to their horses. He didn’t wait for her to mount, he lifted her into the saddle, handing her the reins and turned to mount his horse. She had not said a word. He led them out of the village._

_At the house he stopped them in front of the door. The maid had seen them arrive and was coming down the front steps. He lifted Sophia from the saddle and turned to the maid. ‘Your mistress is chilled. Take her to her room and put more wood on the fire. She will take supper in her room. It’s been a long day and she should not be disturbed tonight.’ The young woman nodded at his instructions and led Sophia up the stairs. She followed the maid quietly, turning back once to look at him._

_He led the horses to the stables and handed the reins to the groom and stable boy. He stopped in the kitchen to tell the housekeeper to take hot water to her mistress’ room and a brandy. Having done what he could think of to put distance and time between them, he went into the drawing room. He added wood to the fire, poured brandy and took off his boots stretching his legs out before him. He raked his hand through his hair. He hadn’t intended for it to happen between them. He knew how much he wanted her - but was it only because she was beautiful and desirable? It was much more than that. He didn’t want to seduce her – she must want him too. He wanted her to love him._

_He stood up abruptly. It was still light enough to go for another swim. He chuckled to himself as he strode from the room heading for the stables. Cold water was just what he needed._

_It was dark when he returned from the lake. The water had been freezing, and he swam several lengths of the lake, until he was barely able to drag himself onto the rock shelf. Years ago, he had sat here with Gatien, exhausted from their sparing exercises, struggling to stay awake long enough to eat the roasted meat Gatien cooked for them. He lay back on the cool rock looking up at the stars. He had vowed to find the man responsible for Gatien’s death – and kill him. As he grew older he realized the futility of that vow. Gatien had been a soldier and had been sent on a mission. It was unlikely that he would ever know the one man who had been responsible for his death. He had died as a soldier – in a place called Savoy._

_He walked up the stairs to his room carrying a lamp. He paused by her door, listening. It was quiet, she was asleep. He went to his room, opening the door quietly, entering the dark room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He started to step forward and came to a sudden stop._

_She was sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching the gown wrapped around her. Her hair was cascading past her shoulders and she was barefoot. Her face was tear streaked, eyes red rimmed from crying. Alarmed, he walked quickly to her, placing the lamp on the table._

_‘What is it?’ He asked anxiously, sitting next to her and turning her to him. ‘What’s happened?’_

_She raised her tear stained face to him, breath rasping and whispered, ‘I heard you ride away on your horse. I thought you had left.’ Fresh tears spilled from her eyes. His abandoned any thought of not touching her and pulled her into his lap, holding her to him as hard as he dared._

_‘I’m sorry,’ she sniffed. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and held it to her nose. ‘Blow,’ he commanded. She complied and looked at him through wet eyelashes. ‘I thought it was because of what happened between us, or what didn’t happen.’_

_‘That was entirely my fault,’ he told her. ‘I shouldn’t have kissed you.’ She looked down, a slow flush creeping up her neck and onto her cheeks._

_‘I’ve never been with a man,’ she said shyly. ‘I’ve never been kissed – like that,’ she added. A fact he already knew as well as what his responsibility would be should anything further develop between them._

_‘I understand. I don’t want you to worry. Nothing is going to happen between us that you do not want.’ ‘And if I do want it?’ a smile quirked at the corners of her mouth. She looked up at him from under hooded eyes._

_‘Well, that would be different,’ he said slowly, aware of the sudden quickening he felt deep in his body. Just her willingness to have him touch her ignited a fire in him that he struggled to control. ‘But nothing is going to happen tonight,’ he said decisively. She looked questioning at him._

_‘Your feet are like ice and nothing is less desirable than a woman with cold feet,’ he told her firmly. She giggled and frowned in confusion as he stood up with her still in his arms and placed her on the bed._

_‘Wait here,’ he ordered._

_He went to her room and gathered up the pillows and blankets, returning to his room. He pulled back the covers and she scrambled underneath. He pulled the covers over her and stacked the pillows against the headboard. He lay down next to her, his back against the pillow pile on top of the covers. He pulled her blankets over him and raised his arm, so she could lay her head against his chest.  
‘Go to sleep Rabbit,’ he said softly. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ She snuggled close to him, draping her arm across his chest as though to hold him close to her. ‘Lucien,’ she murmured sleepily, exhausted from tears, worry and confusion for what she felt for the man who held her._

_I’ll never leave you,’ he whispered to her, stroking her cheek and kissing her forehead. It wasn’t long before he felt the steady rhythm of her breathing, her lashes tickling his skin, her hand resting on his chest._

_He stroked her hair absently. He had spent the day un-spooling his life - who he had been and who he was now. He had few illusions about himself – the bastard son of a whore, raised in abject circumstances, who walked a thin line between honest work and brutal criminality, reaping great wealth from his King’s sanctioned violence. Yet, he had been loved – by a nun, a soldier and a child of the aristocracy. With unerring instinct, he knew her love would heal the wounds of his past and direct his future._

_He lay in the dark - holding her to him – knowing that someday he would look back and know that this was the moment that marked his life changing forever. He could not foresee all that would happen, but she was as integral to him as the breath that filled his body. And, like the air around him, he would never be able to live without her._

Tonight, Anne had asked for a favor and he had said yes. Twelve years ago, without him asking, she had helped him and given him the chance for this life. She had not expected anything in return – she had done it because she could. Tonight, she hadn’t told him everything – perhaps the most important thing she had omitted was that her husband was involved. She would leave that part out – knowing that twelve years or many times more would not be enough to cool his anger.

There was no time when he would forget watching Athos shoot the woman he loved and leave her to die.

But she didn’t die and now he was riding to her to explain what he was going to do. He hoped it would stop there – but he feared the past was about to move into the present. Loose ends had materialized, buried secrets unearthed, and past adversaries stepping forward from the shadows of bygone times.

There was an inn not far away and he considered stopping to rest the horse and have a bite to eat. The stallion was moving well under him and showed no signs of tiring. Perhaps the horse knew, as he did, the importance of their mission to get home to her – that it was sorely needed to drive back haunting memories and fears. 

He leaned forward slightly, lifted the reins and the stallion picked up his pace. They went past the lighted inn, pushing forward into the night.


	12. A City Unlike Any Other

**Author: Mordaunt**

 

 _“This city is another world_  
_Within a world that flourishes_  
_With people very powerful_  
_To whom all things abound”_

_Inscription on the famous Merian Map (Plan de Merian) of Paris, 1615(1)_

_September 1648 (2)_

 

Paris was not at all what Raoul expected. It is not that he had not seen a city. He grew up in Venice. He had visited Florence, Padua, and Naples. He had been to Rome and the Vatican. He found Paris smaller than he had imagined, crowded, and dirty, its famous churches and palaces barely visible in the smoke of muskets and canons. A feral wind from the river carried the smell of burned wood that made the eyes sting, mixed with the sweetness of rotting moss and the stench of human waste. He rode silently next to General du Vallon, trying to navigate the crowded winding streets.

“This city stinks!” exclaimed the General. “Don’t fear it my young friend and never denigrate it! For it is in these streets that history is made!” The General was right. There was something in this foul air and these dirty streets that vibrated like a beating heart: Excitement. Anticipation. Promise. Raoul fell in love with Paris that day. “This unruly, reckless city,” he told himself, “this city is where I was meant to be.”  

 

By the next morning he had no doubt.

 

“My dear Comte,” said the General to the elegant, dashing cavalier standing in his study as Raoul entered. “Let me introduce you to the Vicomte de Bragelonne, my new aide-de-camp, a gentleman of great intellect and courage, and son of a beloved friend, the Comte de la Fère.”

“A dear old friend of my father’s also!” the young man added extending his hand. “Dear Vicomte, welcome to Paris! I am the Comte de Guiche, son of Marechal du Gramont. We are to travel to Flanders together!”

Life took a completely unexpected turn after that for Raoul. Monsieur de Guiche became his guide to a world he had only heard about: a world of fashionable soirées and game tables, of nights at the opera and the theater. A world of court politics. A world where everything always means something else. Where dueling with swords is as common as parrying in clever slanted words. It is a world that fits him well, he slowly realized. He is good in it. He can speak its slanted clever language. He has been trained to do it all his life.

He wrote to his father about his work for the General, mostly correspondence and official visits preparing the troops for Flanders, and about his progress training with the Hauteclere (3 _). “It is an obstinate, tenacious blade,”_ he wrote. _“At first I naively thought I might tame it. The harder I tried, the more I failed. Finally, it occurred to me that its very power lies in its tenacity. I am supposed to wield it but not conquer it. Ever since I realized that we seem to get along marvelously._ ”

 _“An excellent assessment,”_ his father wrote back. _“I too came to the same conclusion. The Hauteclere serves no one. Respect its boundaries and it shall respect your intentions. Let it guide your arm as you guide its blade…”_

Raoul wrote to his mother about the world of the slanted clever words. About his invitation to Monsieur Scarron’s. About Madame Paulet, “The Lioness,” and Mademoiselle d’ Aubignè, “The Beautiful Indian,” the lady with the soft velvet eyes. He thought them beautiful indeed, but not as captivating as those of Mademoiselle de la Vallière. He did not write about this last thing to his mother. Mademoiselle de la Vallière was to remain his alone.

 _“To receive an invitation from The Queen’s Great Patient,”_ his mother wrote back, _“is almost impossible. There is no circle more exclusive and no salon more desired than Monsieur Scarron’s little rooms at the Rue de Turenne. Remember to parry carefully and never let your guard down.  This is a poet’s den and verses make a deadly weapon.”_

*******

 

“Alas, I am a total provincial,” Mademoiselle d’ Aubignè smiles softly towards Raoul as the company listens to a recitation of one of Monsieur Voiture’s poems about the Queen. “I seem to be the only one who finds his verses charming…”

“ _Chut_ , my dear!” Monsieur Scarron exclaims. He leads the lady to the other side of the room having noticed her interest in the young Vicomte. “They are indeed charming,” he adds, “but among poets we never speak of such things!”

“The Beautiful Indian has eyes for you and no one else this evening,” de Guiche whispers to Raoul. “And you seem to inspire her love of poetry, even if it is Voiture…”

Raoul laughs. “They are charming verses, and since I am no poet, it appears I can speak of them as such. As for Mademoiselle d’ Aubignè: she is indeed enchanting. But alas my friend, I am neither a poet nor the Queen’s Great Patient…”

“Spoken like a true politician!” de Guiche retorts. “And like a man captivated by another pair of eyes altogether. Can there be one fairer than this?” he adds. “Venetian or French?”

 

Raoul remains silent, pretending to listen to another recitation. It is a story about the Duc de Beaufort’s attempt to torture his jailer, the governor of Vincennes, M. de Chavigny, by coming up with verses against the Queen and her Prime Minister.  

“Poor Monsieur de Beaufort!” says The Lioness, “Heaven has granted him many gifts but unfortunately neither the gift of verse nor that of prose…”

“Nor the gift of painting it seems,” adds M. de Mènage, “for once he failed in poetry he proceeded to cover the walls of his cell with drawings of the Queen’s and the Prime Minister’s life. As you can imagine they were not good. So to make sure everyone understood his meaning, the Duc added long inscriptions of the events he depicted…”

 

“It must be a French pair of eyes!” de Guiche insists. “For why deny it if it were Venetian? And if not Mademoiselle d’ Aubignè in Paris, then who…” He ponders silently for a while… “But of course!” he exclaims. “At Blois! It must be…”

Raoul realizes his mistake immediately. He tried to remain impassive, yet his friend’s last remark caught him unprepared. He turned his head. He should not have done so. He recalls his mother’s warning: _“Remember to parry carefully and never let your guard down.”_

“So it is Blois…” de Guiche says. “Oh my…! You do not mean…?” 

“Who?”

“My friend, there is not much at Blois. In fact, there is only one possibility and not a good one... The fair daughter of that valet of the Duc d’ Orlèans… Mademoiselle de la Vallière!”

It is indeed too late, Raoul thinks. His friend’s assessment makes his heart sink but also triggers his curiosity.

“Why not a good one?” he asks hoping he does not sound as defensive as he feels. “Do you know the lady?”

“I happen to know her, indeed. My valet, M. Malicorne, you know him, a good solid fellow, is infatuated with that lively girl, her companion, Aure… I mean Mademoiselle Montalais. I pay my visit to the Duchess, my aunt, and hunt in her estate and he pays a visit to his heart’s desire. That is where I met your Mademoiselle de la Vallière. A pretty little thing. Too demure for my taste and too pale. Her mother should have considered perhaps widowhood instead of the marriage she chose. It truly diminishes her daughter’s future…”

“Is that your objection then? Her complexion, her reticence, and her mother’s ill advised choice of husband?”

“Forgive me, my friend,” de Guiche replies with genuine feeling. “It was not my intention to offend you or the lady. I was raised in a world where most things are not what they appear to be. I find that kind of reticence disingenuous, but that may be my upbringing rather than the lady’s character. At the same time… let me caution you, for I believe the lady in question has her attentions focused on another…”

“Another?” Raoul feels a cold wave envelop him. He makes no effort to hide the slight tremble in his voice.

“A Musketeer… He is well known. You may have heard of him, for he holds your father’s title of best Swordsman in France. Monsieur de Rohan…”

 

“….Imagine Mr. de Chavigny’s terror,” M. de Mènage continues his recitation about the Duc de Beaufort’s exploits at Vincennes, “when he realized that the dog, Pistache, was trained by the Duc to perform all these tricks using insults against the Prime Minister!”

“Now that is what the Duc would call a childish repast [pastime]!” exclaims Madame de Scudèry and the room breaks into laughter. The Duc’s tendency towards awkward malapropisms is one of the many reasons he remains among the most talked about people in Paris even after five years in prison.

 

“Vicomte, I was looking forward to seeing you this evening.”

In his state of frustration, Raoul almost completely ignored Madame de Montbazon, who has been making an effort to approach him for sometime.

“Forgive me, Madame!” he says, regaining his composure. “The discussion this evening has unfortunately veered too far from poetry and seems to lack the blessing of the Muses…” It is well known that Madame de Montbazon and the Duc de Beaufort were lovers before his arrest. She still works for his cause. Raoul reckons that despite appearances she finds the discussion in the salon unpleasant. 

She smiles acknowledging his subtlety. “Thank you, Monsieur, for your kindness. It is for that reason I wished to speak to you.” She carefully leads him aside, behind a thick velvet curtain by the window. “I want to thank you for all your father and mother are attempting to do, and to convey my deepest gratitude to the General. I want to assure you too that I am theirs to use; we all are. All the Duc’s friends. And we are ready to act as planned.”

Raoul is perplexed. He has no idea what his mother and father or the General are planning. In retrospect, they must have been planning something. “I do not wish to fight,” his father said back in Venice, “but it may be necessary in order to make the Minister listen…” So this is it: the Duc de Beaufort… help him escape? Why was he not told? His father had promised…”

“I will do so, Madame,” he says with confidence. He is good at dissimulating. “I urge you to convey to me any news so that I may communicate it immediately.”

 

She reaches for his hand, her voice intimating urgency and worry. “Word is that tomorrow they will arrest M. Broussel, our courageous ally in the Parliament. The Coadjutor is expected here soon to confirm it. It is a seemingly reckless decision on their part for the streets will rise against them as never before. It is also a ruse…”

“I see,” Raoul says quietly. He recognizes his mother’s scheming mind behind this. “Who will make the arrest, Madame?”

“M. d’ Artagnan and the King’s Musketeers. M. de Comminges will assist him, I suspect. They expect large riots and they need all the men they can find...” M. d’ Artagnan, whom Raoul has never met but has heard so much about, is clearly risking his neck helping his old friends, while pretending to be duped.

“Please, Vicomte…” the lady continues, “I need to know just one thing. That he escaped and that he is safe. And that all our friends are safe too, your parents and the General most of all.”

“You have my word, Madame.” Raoul retorts.

 

He knows what must be done. 

 

\------

NOTES

(1) Original Inscription- I provide a rather “free” translation of it.

 _Cette ville est un autre monde_  
_Dedans, un monde florissant,_  
_En peuples et en biens puissants_  
_Qui de toutes choses abonde._  

(2) The chapter is inspired by a number of chapters in "Twenty Years After,"especially chapters describing a gathering at M. Scarron’s apartments and chapters describing the captivity of the Duc de Beaufort at Vincennes. However, the storylines here are completely different.  Raoul in this story is different from Dumas’ character. The chapter also is meant to reflect a very similar segment in Athos’ early life (see "Past Forgotten, Past Remembered" posted on AO3.) Father and son are both exposed to the world of courtiers (in the case of Athos both in France and England.) The stories are meant to show how similar and how different the two of them are.

(3) Hauteclere: the story of the sword is included in the backstory for Athos’ early life from “Past Forgotten, Past Remembered,” posted on AO3.  It is the sword Athos gives to Raoul in “A Son’s Heritage” (Chapter 8)

(4) People/events mentioned in this chapter:

In exclusive salons and aristocratic circles (and also at court,) people were often called by nicknames. This is specific to this period, and Dumas conveys this world faithfully. I follow Dumas in this instance. 

 **Comte de Guiche** : Armand de Gramont (1637-1673) Comte de Guiche. De Guiche was considered the most handsome and elegant man in France (he was the most famous “playboy”,) and was the lover both of Henriette of England and of her husband, the younger brother of King Louis XIV, Philippe d’ Orleans (or Monsieur.)

In “Twenty Years After” Raoul joins the army of Monsieur le Prince (see below) in Flanders. On his way to Flanders, Raoul saves the life of a young officer who turns out to be the Comte de Guiche (the son of the Marshal of France.) De Guiche and Raoul become best friends. De Guiche is in love with Madame Henriette of England.

 **Marechal du Gramont:** Antoine de Gramont (1604-1678), Comte de Guiche, later Duc de Gramont was made Marshal of France in 1641. His son was Armand de Gramont (1637-1673) Comte de Guiche (see above.)

 **Scarron/ Rue de Turenne:** Paul Scarron (1610-1660) was a burlesque poet, author, and playwright. He was crippled by tubercular rheumatism by the age of 30 although Dumas ascribes his disability to an accident (this was the prevalent rumor.) In 1648 he was recipient of the Queen’s patronage, thus he was known as “The Queen’s Patient.” He married Mademoiselle d’ Aubignè in 1652. Dumas situates his apartments at the wrong location- here I chose the historically correct location.

 **Madame Paulet:** Angèlique Paulet (1591-1650) one time mistress of Henri IV (father of Louis XIII) and a star of the salons where she was known as “The Lioness” and “Parthènie.”

 **Mademoiselle d’ Aubignè:** Françoise (1635-1719) married Scarron in 1652. As Madame de Maintenon she became governess of the royal children and the children of Madame de Montespan the royal mistress of Louis XIV. After the death of Queen Henrietta Maria she married Louis XIV in a secret ceremony in 1684.

 **Mademoiselle de la Vallière:** Françoise Louise de la Baume Le Blanc (1644-1710) was royal mistress of Louis XIV between 1661-1667 and bore him four children. She was replaced by Madame de Montespan, retired from court life in 1670 and took the veil in 1674. Dumas invents a childhood relationship between her and his Raoul Bragelonne that turns deadly for him. I am not following this arc for Raoul since the character here is significantly different.

 **Monsieur Voiture:** Vincent Voiture (1598-1648) frequented the salon at the famous Hôtel de Rambouillet. He was a poet, letter writer, and one of the arbiters of fine language and grammar.

 **The Duc de Beaufort:** He appears in Season 3 briefly (The Hunger), but that character has little in common with the historical figure besides a name.

François de Vendôme (1616-1669), Duc de Beaufort was the grandson of King Henry IV (=father of King Louis XIII) and his royal mistress Gabrielle d’ Estrèes. He was imprisoned at Vincennes in 1643 for plotting with Madame de Chevreuse against Cardinal Mazarin (=Queen Anne’s lover and possible husband, but not the father of either of her sons.) De Beaufort escaped from Vincennes on Whit Sunday (May 31) 1648.  He was known as “Roi Les Halles” (King of the Markets,) for his support of the rioting citizens of Paris. In 1653, he made his peace with King Louis XIV and later served him in the Mediterranean. He was killed at the siege of Candia (modern Heraklion, Crete.) Despite all these honors and titles, he was not particularly bright and he was known for his nonchalance and his malapropisms.

Dumas portrays him as nonchalant and cavalier. He makes much of his malapropisms. His escape from Vincennes on Whit Sunday is a major plotline in “Twenty Years After.” In Dumas, it is organized by Athos, Aramis (who is a Frondeur, a Jesuit, and lover of Madame de Longueville,) and Madame de Chevreuse (Athos’ lover and Raoul’s mother,) and carried out singlehandedly by Grimaud, Athos’ brilliant servant (=not the same character as s3 Grimaud.) Dumas describes how during his captivity, which was supposed to be for life, the Duc “tortured” his jailers, especially the governor of the prison M. de Chavigny with all kinds of childish tricks, such as the ones mentioned in the chapter. 

 **Monsieur de Chavigny:** Lèon Le Bouthilier (1608-1652,) Comte de Chavigny was a Minister of State and member of the Regency Council. He had been appointed Governor of the Château de Vincennes by Richelieu. There was a rumor, that he was Richelieu’s son.

 **Monsieur de Mènage:** Gilles (1613-1692), scholar and man of letters. He frequented the salon at the famous Hôtel de Rambouillet.

 **Malicorne:** German Texier (1626-1694,) Baron de Malicorne. Dumas makes him a son of a lawyer, an intriguer with lofty ambitions and lover of Mademoiselle Montalais. In Dumas, there is a second character named **Manicamp.** The name is derived from **Louis de Madallan de Lesparre c. 1628-1708** , a career soldier who achieved the title of Comte although the Dumas character has nothing to do with the person. In Dumas, Manicamp is the valet of the Comte de Guiche, a good fellow, always poor, who lacks ambition. I decided to conflate these two characters in one. After all Dumas also does something similar. So in my story Malicorne is the valet of the Comte de Guiche and lover of Mademoiselle Montalais.

 **Mademoiselle Montalais:** Nicole Anne Constance. Dumas calls her “Aure.” She was lady in waiting at the court of Gaston d’ Orlèans at Blois and a companion of Louise de La Valliere. In 1661 she joined the retinue of Henriette, Duchess of Orlèans (wife of King Louis XIV’s younger brother Philippe.) Montalais had a taste for intrigue and was involved in some scandalous affairs at Versailles.

 **Madame de Scudèry:** Madeleine (1607-1701) prolific writer, speaker, letter writer, and a very influential intellectual of her time.

 **Madame Montbazon:** Marie d’ Avaugour de Bretagne (1612-1657), Duchess de Montbazon, second wife of the Duc de Montbazon, father of Madame de Chevreuse. She was Beaufort’s mistress.

 **Coadjutor:** Jean François Paul de Gondi (1613-1679) was named Coadjutor to his uncle the Bishop of Paris in 1643 and became a cardinal in 1652. A leading figure in opposing Mazarin in the first Fronde, he rallied to the Queen’s party in the second. He is a significant character in Dumas’ "Twenty Years After."

 **Broussel:** Pierre (c. 1576-?1654) led the Paris Parliament’s opposition to the Queen’s party in 1648. His arrest on Aug. 26 was the spark that ignited the “Day of the Barricades.”

 **M. de Comminges:** Gaston de Comminges (1613-1670) was captain of the Queen’s Guard. He arrested M. de Beaufort in 1643.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes are added manually at the end of this chapter because they are too long for the space provided.


	13. Favors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucien's story is told in 'To hell with circumstances....'
> 
> Sophia's story is told in 'A plain unvarnished tale...'

She was dozing –– a cooling wisp of air drifting over her, strong fingers stroking her bare back. She loved to lie naked along the length of him –– no slip of cloth to infringe on the feel of his skin against hers. She was rising…and falling…according to the inhale and exhale of the man lying beneath her. The first time they had lain together had been in this room – so long ago. The manor had been vacant for many years – since her mother had died and she had not been there for years before that. They had come to an empty house filled with the ghostly memories of the people who had once lived there – their secrets echoing through the rooms and spilling down the long hallways and stairs.

They had gone to this empty house of their past to find refuge from the condemnation they faced in their present. There were no secrets here between them. 

She had been an innocent, overwhelmed with his intoxicating magnetism - he swept her into the powerful magic of seduction, the shock of physical pleasure suspending reason and where nothing mattered but the feel of him luring her to exquisite madness. His hunger for her was exhilarating and he made no effort to temper his desire, holding her face between his warm hands – _mine_ – he whispered into her. He undressed her slowly, releasing buttons, untying laces and letting her dress and petticoats pool at her feet, great swaths of cloth billowing up to encompass her legs. He released her from her stays and smoothed the palm of his hand over her shoulders and down her arms lifting her hands and kissing the tender skin inside her wrists. He lifted away her chemise and his lips moved over her nape and followed the contours that marked her spine down to the swell of her bottom. She stood blushing, trembling and shy as he studied her, raising her chin with his long fingers until she looked into his dark golden eyes, 'you are beautiful,' lifting her in his arms and carrying her to the bed.

The beauty of his body took her breath away - his shoulders and chest broad and powerfully muscled, his torso tapering. He was a marble statue covered with a silken skin - smooth and reflexive under her fingertips and lips. His dark silky hair fell forward to brush her cheeks, his dark sculpted face taut above her, the erotic allure of his strength and beauty flowing around her as he restrained his passion, patiently coaxing her until she begged for release from the desperate needs that gripped her. Submission had been frightening and thrilling. She cried not from pain – but from an experience of intimacy both primal and divine – it defied a definition compressed into a single small word – love.

It had been exciting and addictive – uninhibited sensuality ruled her – alert to him as he filled the doorway of a room or at the sound of his booted step on the stairs – the warm flush of desire beginning its shameless coil deep and low inside her. He would look at her and know – he always knew – his wolfish mouth curling in amusement, eyes darkening as he moved toward her.

Was it during the long nights of their unbridled passion that their child had been created? She liked to think so – that in the hours they bared their souls and opened their hearts and gave everything to each other – their intensity and love had been infused into their tiny babe - giving her strength and courage. We are looking for you, her mother whispered into the universe. We will find you.

Lucien shifted under her, moving her to the side of him, her head resting on his chest, and pulled up the coverlet. Her eyes slid slightly open, ‘go to sleep,’ he whispered. He kissed her forehead looking down at the long lashes shadowing her cheeks and stroked his hand through her hair. She sighed and closed her eyes. He felt her breath steady and even – she was asleep. He let his head fall back against the pillows, staring out into the darkness beyond the window. The rippled glass created fragmented shadows of the moonlight streaming into the room. Chittering sounds of insects were muffled, the occasional screech of an owl in the distance.

He had come to the manor house for brief stay – as soon, he would need to be gone for a longer period. He had not yet told her of these plans.

>>  
The tavern known as the Tattered Raven was mostly full – a few tables of card games scattered in the corners, a dog sleeping fitfully on the hearth. There was a strong smell of tobacco and wine in the air. A man laid the length of a bench snoring softly and somewhere in the room a mournful tune was being played on a lute.

She watched him approach, a smile beginning to form as he got closer. He stood over her, his eyes roaming over her face. It had been many years since they had seen each other. She stood and embraced him. They stood quietly for a moment and she kissed him gently, holding his face in her hands.

‘Lucien,’ she said, eyes traveling over his face, touching a tiny scar she did not remember. He smiled at her.

‘Hello Anne,’ he replied. Her features were softening with the years, but her emerald gaze was still alluring and hypnotic. There was wisdom in that gaze, a new serenity in her countenance and maturity had bestowed a regal patina to her beauty. He held her arm while she sat and then seated himself, glancing at the serving girl. Wine appeared at their table. He waited for her to speak. She would explain as much or as little as she wished about why she had returned to Paris and what she wanted from him.

An hour later, he sat back turning his glass to watch the wine move side to side. He was thinking about what she had told him and the more expansive portion of what she had not told him. The details of the plan were sketchy – but that didn’t really concern him – he wasn’t involved with it. She had only asked him for the use of a boat and men to crew it to, as yet, an unknown location. He noted that she did not say the names of those also involved in this caper. There was a reason for it – she didn’t want him to know – most likely because he would know the men. Athos must be part of it and she was careful to not stoke any fires by mentioning him.

What she didn’t know was his suspicion that Athos was involved in his child’s disappearance – or that he must have known or suspected at some time. It might serve him to see Athos – to confront him with their knowledge and demand explanation and information. He turned these thoughts over in his mind – examining them from all sides, discarding some, re-evaluating others, remodeling some to a better advantage. He looked at Anne – waiting for his reply.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I will help you.’

>>  
He pulled his shirt on over his head and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. He padded down the stairs and the sleeping mastiffs at the bottom got to their feet stretching their stiffened legs. He rubbed their heads and the dogs followed him into his study and to the fireplace where they circled and lay down to enjoy the warmth. He poured a glass of port and slid into his chair behind the desk. He picked up the first report from the search among the tenant farms and started reading.

He heard the door open and close softly. She came forward wrapped in his cloak, on silent feet until she was next to him. He shifted back in the chair and pulled her into his lap, cradling her with his arm. She rested her head against his shoulder

‘I thought you were sleeping,’ he murmured, turning his head to kiss her forehead.

‘The bed was suddenly empty,’ she said, a smile playing on her lips.

‘Have you read these?’ he indicated the papers he was going through. She nodded.

‘I don’t think she was placed with a family on the estate. It might have been too risky,’ she said, ‘perhaps it was easy to see or recognize her.’ She may look too much like one of us.’ He did not reply.

‘You are going to be gone for a while,’ she said, changing the subject.

‘Yes – Anne has returned to Paris,’ he said, ‘she asks for a favor,’ he said. He could feel her surprise and her frown. She wanted to ask about Anne – but she focused on the problem she had heard.

‘A favor?’

‘She is now involved in politics – and helping someone escape from Chateau Vincennes. She asks for a boat to help in the getaway.’

She sat up and looked at him, ‘this is more than a favor!’ she said frowning at him. ‘Getting involved with the Fronde can be dangerous – for all of us!’ She tried to stand, but he held her back.

‘This is Feron and Lorraine and Gascon all over again,’ she cried, ‘everyone with their own interests pretending to work together – look at what happened to us – they will just use you. I cannot allow this again,’ she was struggling to stand, pushing against his immovable arm.

‘We are in the midst of something important Lucien – I do not want any risk of you being arrested or hurt. I need you!’ Her voice was rising with alarm. He tugged her back against him, his palm against her cheek.

‘She helped us once. I do not have it in my heart to refuse her,’ he said firmly. Glints in her blue eyes flared as she cupped his chin firmly in her hand.

'Your heart belongs to _me_ ,’ she said, ‘It will not be risked in such a venture – regardless of what you think we owe her.’

Gently, he dislodged her fingers, bringing each one into his lips, his eyes on her, a small smile at the corners of his mouth. ‘I do not think it involves much risk – once away from the Vincennes, it is not far to the river and I doubt the guards will miss him for a long time.’

‘I don’t think…,’ she started to object. ‘I know how to do this Rabbit,’ his voice was soothing, and he kissed her cheek. ‘You forget I am a pirate,’ his voice teased and cajoled, he turned her hand over and kissed her palm.

‘I know what you are – _my husband_ …,’ she was not to be enticed. ‘I do not want….’

‘But,’ he continued, still holding her hand and curling his tongue between her fingers, ‘perhaps I need to convince you,’ he tugged gently at the edge of the cloak and slipped his warm hand inside. She drew in her breath as his hand closed over her soft flesh of her breast.

She narrowed her eyes at his dark hooded gaze and lifted her hand, her fingertips tracing a line down his cheek to the opening of his shirt and across the smooth skin of his chest, ‘you seem to have an erotic persuasion in mind Monsieur – no doubt you assume that will work with me?’

He smiled devilishly, ‘you have unmasked my wicked intents lady – shall I continue to plead my case?’

She laid her head back against his shoulder, her hand drifting down to where their bodies met, ‘you are committed to this persuasion?’ she asked innocently, pressing and shifting her hips in his lap, ‘you have unusual confidence in winning my favor Monsieur.’

He groaned softly at her movements, ‘naughty girl,’ he murmured. ‘I assure you – I can be be…unselfish,’ and licked at the curve of her ear. She laughed softly and traced his lips with her fingers, his eyes now intent on hers and smoldering with a look she knew well.

‘Who is it?’ she asked curiously and watched him take a lock of her long hair and wind it around his finger, a smile playing on his lips.

‘An old friend of your,’ he teased, ‘one of your dancing partners.’ She frowned at him – who was he talking about?

‘Beaufort’


	14. Day of the Barricades

**Author: Mordaunt**

 

 

 _When Roland sees that battle there must be  
_ _Leopard nor lion ne’er grew so fierce as he._

_(Song of Roland,1040-1115, 88: lines 1110-1111, Transl. Dorothy Sayers)_

 

“The General left early this morning, Monsieur le Vicomte,” the servant tells Raoul. “He left a message for you,” he adds handing him an envelope.

Raoul breaks the seal, and reads:

 

> _“Vicomte,_
> 
> _I have private affairs to attend to. I leave you in charge of my office. Make sure my correspondence is in order,_
> 
> _General du Vallon.”_

 

Despite his limited experience as an aide-de-camp to a General, Raoul knows this is unusual. Madame de Montbazon was correct. This is the day when whatever plan his mother has set in motion is taking place. This is also the day M. Broussel (1) will be arrested. That is their decoy. He appreciates that all of them, the General included, are trying to protect him. However, he sees a major flaw in their plan, even if he does not know the details. “It is time to prove myself,” he thinks. He grabs his cloak and sword and asks for his horse to be saddled. There is little time to waste.

Things have changed. It was clear the moment M. Gondi, the Coadjutor (2) walked into M. Scarron’s apartments late the previous evening. He spoke little, but the message was clear: we are ready. And later, in the course of the night, from his open window Raoul could hear something was amiss. The city sounded different. There was murmur in the dark streets, and at times, a strange subdued roar, as if somewhere close by a fierce storm was gathering.

Overnight the city is no longer the same.

Overnight the city is under siege.

Raoul ventures into the street. Barricades are erected everywhere. Patrols of armed men with plumed hats, the sign of the Fronde, roam the city, musket on shoulder, words of command, accosting, threatening to arrest, even execute…

 

 

> “Long Live Broussel! Down with the Minister!”

 

Whoever refuses to comply, whoever refuses to cry out their call to arms is heckled and beaten… No one is killed for the moment although it is clear to Raoul that it is simply a matter of time. He manages to avoid getting stopped but he is determined to do anything necessary to get from the General’s quarters to the Musketeer Garrison, his final destination.

The barricades have reached all the way to the Palais Royal. From the Rue de Richelieu, past the Rue de Bons Enfants, all the way to the Louvre Raoul counts thousands of men, some in arms, but most carrying only their defiance against the Guard that is lined up before the closed gates of the Palais Royal. In the crowd gathered at the gate, a dozen or so men and women, pale and emaciated, with ragged clothes, carry banners that read: “See the misery of the people!” and “We starve!” And everywhere, hiding behind the overturned wagons, the barrels, and the old tables and chairs of the barricades, Raoul sees children armed with nothing but slings and stones. Some are as young as five or four years old. From somewhere in the direction of the Pont Neuf the first shots are fired. “It has started…” Raoul thinks as he presses his horse towards the Garrison. 

“I am General du Vallon’s aide-de-camp!” he yells at the Musketeers who are lined to guard the gate. “Let me through! I must speak to your Captain immediately!” He dashes through the courtyard, runs up the stairs, and knocks on door of the Captain’s office.

“Enter!”

The Captain stands with his back turned to the door, surrounded by two Musketeers and a third man wearing the uniform of recruits. They are all carefully studying a map of the city spread on his desk.

“Vicomte de Bragelonne, reporting for General du Vallon, Captain!” Raoul announces himself.

“ _Mordieu_!” the Captain turns looking at Raoul in complete bewilderment. “ _Mordieu_ …!” he repeats, staring at Raoul from head to toe. His men turn too, utterly baffled by this newcomer, who has interrupted their meeting, distracting their Captain.

“Porthos mentioned you are his spitting image, but by God, that is an understatement…” He walks up to Raoul and shakes his hand. “I’d welcome you to Paris, Monsieur, and to this Garrison. It is unfortunate that it happens on this day…”

Raoul smiles back as he shakes the Captain’s hand. “I am honored to meet you, Captain, no matter what this day brings. The man I have heard so much about. The man my father calls his son…”

“Well then, Monsieur!” d’ Artagnan says with an air of authority clearly trying to hide an emotion. “What is it the General wants you to report?”

Raoul had not considered this part thoroughly. He decides he should simply tell the truth. It is just that…“Captain,” he says, “I must speak to you alone…”

A wave of hand and all three of his men quietly motion to leave the room, each bowing on their way out. Of the three, only one, the younger Musketeer with the short black hair, glares at Raoul evidently displeased by the interruption of the meeting with their Captain. 

 

“Speak, Vicomte…” d’ Artagnan says the moment they are alone.

“Captain, there is no message from the General to deliver. It was a pretext. I must speak to you about the plan that is unfolding as we speak. The plan you know about….”

 “I know nothing about any plan, Monsieur and I am the last man you should be confiding in…” The Captain sounds irritated and deeply concerned at the same time. “I suggest you return to the General’s quarters and to your duties. I suggest you stay away from things you do not understand. We have no time for this…”

“On the contrary, Captain!” the young man insists. “I beg you to listen! You must include me among the men you will send to arrest M. Broussel!”

“Have you lost your mind, Monsieur?”

“Not in the least! And you will see things my way if you listen,” Raoul exclaims with such fervor that the Captain is compelled to do as the young man asks.

“Speak then…” he consents, although the impatience in this voice is clear.   

“Let us suppose that there is some plan to tip the current political scales. I am not saying there is. But if there were a plan… what best day for it to unfold than on the day this entire city is rioting in the streets? No matter whether this plan succeeds or not, those involved are already known for their political affiliations, real or tentative. Not only that. All those close to them, including family and old friends, will be suspected, whether they were protected from participating or not, whether they had a hand in it or not…”

D’ Artangan walks to his chair and sits down, deep in thought. “Continue,” he says, his voice now inscrutable.

“I think Captain, that we have an opportunity here, today, to protect everyone, including all the innocents who may become implicated in an endeavor they knew nothing about.”

The subtlety of the proposal does not escape d’ Artagnan. He thinks of Constance and Alexandre in the room next door, and Porthos’ wife and young children at Bracieux.

“What do you propose, Vicomte?”

“I propose that you use me, Captain! Use me in the most conspicuous manner possible! I am the son of a known Frondeur. I am the son of the woman that the Queen of France wrote letters to for years, asking her to take care of private matters in her name, letters which my mother ignored— I know all about that, my mother never kept anything a secret…”

D’ Artagnan looks utterly astonished at the revelation.

“If it is M. Broussel you must arrest,” Raoul continues noting the Captain’s astonishment, “then I must be among the men who do it!  I must be seen and known for my actions in the service of Queen and Prime Minister. For who would dare accuse any of those we love and care for after such proof of loyalty?”

“Wouldn’t your involvement on the side of the Minister displease your father, Vicomte?”

“My father will understand…” the young man says with conviction.

The Captain stands up and paces in the room thinking. “It is truly astonishing,” he says in the end, turning towards Raoul. “Truly astonishing… You look exactly like your father but sound exactly like your mother! I admit it, Vicomte! This is indeed a brilliant idea… a brilliant move!”

 

He is interrupted by a knock on the door. It is the young recruit.

“M. Marchal! You bring new orders from the Palais Royal?”

“Yes, Captain,” the recruit retorts. “M. de Comminges sends word. The Queen has rescinded her warrant against M. Broussel…”

“Rescinded?” The Captain sounds incredulous. “The…Queen…?”

M. Marchal looks at his Captain, a glint in his coal black eyes. “What I am about to tell you is not coming from M. de Comminges, Captain… Word on the street is that the Queen and the Prime Minister had quite an eventful meeting with M. Gondi during which, it is rumored, the Queen almost attacked the Coadjutor with her bare hands…”

“I can believe that…” d’ Artagnan chuckles.

“After that meeting, M. Gondi exited the Palais Royal with her royal assurance that M. Broussel will not be touched and the Queen locked the Prime Minister out of her apartments refusing to talk to him…”

“I can think of worse conjugal scenes,” d’ Artagnan thinks…

“So we are not to arrest M. Broussel?” D’ Artagnan sounds relieved. “Does M. de Comminges require our men to stop the riots from turning into something more ominous?”

The answer to the question comes from the Musketeer now standing at the Captain’s door next to M. Marchal.

 

“Captain,” he says. “M. de Comminges has just sent a second message. The Queen demands to see you at the Palais Royal immediately. She asks that you bring your best men along.”

The Captain stands up grabbing his hat and pistols. “M. de Rohan,” he orders the Musketeer at the door, “and you M. Marchal you are with me! Call M. de Thierry also and get your horses ready. Vicomte, you join us also!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Broussel: Pierre (c. 1576-?1654), leader of the Paris Parlement opposition to the Queen’s party in 1648. His arrest in August 26, 1648 ignited the riot known as “Day of the Barricades.” I place these events a little later (September.) I use this character following Dumas in “Twenty Years After”, although the storyline is different. 
> 
> (2) Gondi: Jean- François- Paul de Godi (1613-79) was named Coadjutor to his uncle, Bishop of Paris in 1643. He became Cardinal in 1653. During the first Fronde (inspiring events in this story) he opposed Mazarin but during the second Fronde he supported the Queen’s party. I use him following Dumas in “Twenty Years After” although the storyline here is different.


	15. The Doll's Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The action is heating up in Paris, old friends and adversaries reunited, new friendships developing, politics overshadow them all and a desperate mother is searching for a lost child....how will all these threads come together?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is more of Lucien's story in 'To hell with circumstances...'
> 
> There is more of Sophia's story and her connections to Treville, Athos, Lucien and the Musketeers in "A plain unvarnished tale...'

There is a place born of silence  
A place where the whispers of the heart arise.  
There is a place where voices sing your beauty  
A place where every breath  
carves your image  
in my soul (Rumi)

 

The skin she stroked was soft and translucent, a network of tiny faint blue lines meandering beneath its delicate surface, dark spots in a random pattern across the tiny wrinkled hand, slender fingers with clean oval shaped nails – it fit easily in her palm. When Lucien held it in his large strong hand – it seemed to disappear completely. She was, at this stage in her long life, a frail bird of a woman. He had tucked the blanket around her and lifted her easily from the bed and carried her to the window to gaze out at the green vista beyond, the scent of the jasmine climbing the abbey walls and the gardens below. She was a doll in his arms, her head resting against his broad shoulder as he angled his position, so she did not have to turn her head. Sophia and the young nun stripped the bed quickly, laying fresh sheets and pillows. Finished, she straightened and waited for Lucien to return Sister Agatha to the bed. She could hear their faint murmurings – Sister Agatha’s thin reedy voice followed by the deep rumble of Lucien’s chuckle and reply.

They had been sitting together for the last two days, beside the bedside of the old nun who had cared for two children from opposite corners of life - who could not have been more different in their origins or circumstances – but were very alike in their solitude and unhappiness.

Lucien watched her stroke the old woman’s hand as it lay in her palm. He knew the memories that were unspooling in her mind – a diorama from their childhood. From where he sat, he could see it too. He could not remember a time he had not known Sister Agatha. His earliest memory was sitting next to her as she briskly drove her two-wheeled pony cart around the district. His feet did not reach to the floor of the cart and he clung with both hands to the wooden seat to avoid being tossed out of the bouncing cart as they sped along the rutted road. They were both shrieking with laughter.

He and Sophia had found hiding places where they read books to each other or spun tales of where their lives would take them. Sister Agatha could find them, but never seemed to know where they were when His Grace came to retrieve his errant daughter. They tucked themselves deeper in their secret lairs as they heard the thundering voice of her father calling for her, chastising the silent nuns and the obeisant abbot. In his mind, he reached out and held the hands of the two women he had loved for almost his entire life. The old nun was the last link to their history.

Sophia walked with him to the door, and then down the narrow dark corridor of the abbey to where he would leave her and return to Paris. He did not know how long he would be gone and they spoke little as they walked. She drew her shawl around her and waited while he checked the saddle and adjusted the saddle bags. He turned back to her, the broad brim of his hat casting a deep shadow on his face.

He stroked her cheek and drew her to him. She laid her head against his chest and wrapped her arms around his waist.

‘I will miss you,’ she whispered, breathing in his scent mixed with his tobacco and soap, the sea burned deep into his leathers. He tightened his arms around her, his cheek resting against her hair.

‘She is resting easily,’ he said, stroking her back. ‘It will be peaceful. He lowered his head to brush her brow with his lips.

‘Still - I do not like leaving you,’ he sighed, the weight of the impending death carried heavily in his voice.

‘Goodbyes are only for those who love with their eyes,’ she said, smiling.

‘Because for those who love with heart and soul there is no such thing as separation,’ he said softly completing the quotation from the Persian poet, lifting her chin with his strong fingers and kissing her deeply.

And then he was riding down the long drive and disappearing from her sight. She stood for a few moments longer waiting for the gentle breeze of his aura to slowly dissipate – wispy drifts of his presence floating away.

She turned and walked back to the abbey and her vigil with Sister Agatha – awaiting the outcome of the old nun’s conversation with her God. As she neared the door of the room, a dark figure emerged from the shadows, ‘excuse me Madame.’ The dark figure bowed, ‘I left fresh water and food.’ The young nun’s voice was a whisper.

‘Thank you, Sister.’ The nun hesitated. ‘May I help you with something?’ asked Sophia, hand hovering over the latch.

‘It is I who can help you,’ said the voice from the shadows, ‘Sister Agatha wanted you to have it – it is inside.’ Sophia started to speak, but the nun bowed and moved soundlessly down the hallway. She turned back to the door and entered the quiet room.

She crossed to the narrow bed where the aged woman slept. The room was cool, the window slightly open to allow a warm breeze. Outside the daily murmurings of the inhabitants and visitors to the abbey drifted up to them along with bird calls and other sounds of the countryside. It was a pleasant place to wait for death’s arrival.

She rested the back of her hand against the old woman’s forehead – the bones of her skull were fragile and small – like a child’s doll. The table candelabra had been lit and covered dishes were on a tray on the bedside table. She walked around the bed to sit in the chair and came to a sudden halt.

On the floor, in front of the chair was a small trunk. There was a decorative design etched into the wooden surface and studded iron bands encircled it and strengthened the corners. It seemed an unlikely possession for a nun but perhaps she had brought it with her from her family home upon entering the order. It was surprising that she had been able to keep it. Sophia glanced at Sister Agatha with a conspiratorial smile. What did you do? she asked silently - hide and keep a remembrance from your earthly family? A small act of rebellion in a long life in obedient servitude?

Treasures, secrets and private thoughts recorded in diaries or letters could be secured in this sturdy coffer. But nuns keep none of these things – they have no secrets or private thoughts that are not shared with their community or a judging priest in the confessional and they certainly do not have treasures or possessions. She closed her eyes for a moment, steadying her breathing. She knew what she might find in this trunk. She opened her eyes and lifted the lid.

A doll greeted her. She had a simple wooden body, covered with a dress faded and worn, the fabric stiff with age. Her creator had focused his artistic attention to her face – painted, almond-shaped eyes, cheeks once brightly rouged, eyebrows dark and a pink rosebud mouth. Time had faded the color from her decorated face and the hair that had once been carefully styled was hanging in wispy strings around her face. Her body was jointed so the little girl who played with her could move arms and legs, to permit sitting at tea parties or running in the grasses.

She lifted the doll carefully and set in on the table, glancing at the sleeping nun. Was this her doll? Or, had a beloved sister thrust it into her hands as she stepped across the threshold into a sequestered world – where there would be no dolls, or a sister from the family of her birth. But Sister Agatha had proved resourceful – secreting her trunk with her treasured doll and creating a different family.

Under the doll was a rectangular piece of folded silk – darkened and discolored along the folds and faded overall. It had once been a deep shade of rose. Had it been used as a shawl over an evening dress? She held it aside and found several smaller objects – a decorated comb to adorn a lady’s hair, a tarnished silver brush and mirror, a small pewter cup. Why had she kept these things? Did she want to remember that there was another woman under the severity of the wimple and heavy dark robe – a woman who had once worn an evening dress and a beautiful shawl, a comb in her long luxurious hair. Had she danced at a ball? Did she regret her vows or was it a private moment of reflection and gratitude for her call to service?  


At the bottom of the truck was a small rectangular box inlaid with a wood design, and a rolled leather case to hold scrolled documents. Heart pounding and hands shaking – she took the box and scroll case from the trunk.

The top of the box creaked she opened it. There was letter on top of a small stack of letters – her name written in Sister Agatha’s old fashioned stylized form. With trembling fingers, she took the letter, turned it over and broke the seal, unfolding it carefully. She drew the table candelabra closer and lifted the letter to the light and read the first sentence. She froze and the world around her went dark – she drew in her breath sharply and closed her eyes – brimming with tears and held the letter against her.

_My dearest Sophia –_

_Tonight, my sweet girl, you were delivered of a baby – a daughter. It was a difficult birth and I do not know how much you will remember. She has arrived in this world too early– but she had a firm cry. I plead to God to permit her the strength of her mother and father to keep her safe in the days ahead. I have always prayed for you. But never have I importuned the Lord so fervently since the day you were brought here, injured and sick in body and mind. Your life is still imperiled. I pray for guidance on how I am to serve, and I only hope the decisions that were made were correct. If not – then I pray you will find it in your heart to forgive me._

_You came to me with terrible injuries and have been ill for a long time - weak, beset with pain and fevers that go on unabated until I fear you will break under their onslaught. You drift in and out of consciousness - barely aware of your surroundings or who attends on you. Your cries for Lucien bring tears to my eyes – I know not why he is not here with you – M Treville does not explain it to me._

_Dearest girl - the abbot has expressed reluctance to baptize the child. Your health is precarious, you are unwed, your future uncertain. The abbot has persuaded M Treville that to protect your future we are to tell you the baby died and send the child to the orphanage in Paris. It grieves me painfully to deceive you in this way. I will search for a family to take her, so she will have a mother’s care. But there isn’t much time._

_I have secured the assistance of a young priest who has agreed to baptize the baby in secret. The recordings of her birth and baptism are here with these letters. I will hide another copy in the abbey records. I trust, should she go to the orphanage in Paris, M Treville will attend on her welfare._

_Sophia – I helped you hold your baby in your trembling arms. You whispered a word repeatedly as you kissed her. I thought you were trying to name her and have recorded it as I think you would wish. You held her my dear – she knew your love. I wrapped her in your shawl and handed her to the wet nurse._

_I write this in haste - may God and you forgive me –_

_Agatha_

Unchecked tears flowed down her face. Hands shaking, she picked up the scroll case and removed the rolled documents. She unfurled it carefully and scanned the page quickly – searching – and found it. Tenderly she touched the carefully formed script – the name of her daughter.

She turned to the dying nun and sank to her knees on the floor by her bed, sobbing and clutching the old woman’s hand to her cheek, still holding the record of her daughter’s birth and her name.

The door opened, and the nun entered. Seeing the distraught woman on the floor, she stepped to the bed. She leaned over the old woman for a long moment and then straightened.

'She is gone, Madame,’ she said softly. Sophia nodded still holding the nun’s lifeless and cooling hand.

‘Thank-you,’ she whispered.


	16. A Rescue

**Author: Mordaunt**

_A married state affords but little ease;_   
_The best of husbands are so hard to please._

_(Katherine Phillips 1667, A Married State)_

 

She dismounts as soon as they arrive at the appointed place. “He will be here, Monseigneur,” she says.

“I have no doubt, Madame.” The Duc remains on his horse, dressed in the outfit of a merchant and wrapped in a large hooded cloak, as agreed.  

Milady walks to the edge of the riverbank, among stacked sacks of grain and flour seemingly ready to be loaded. The bank is not too shallow nor too marshy, safe for Lucien’s barge to approach. Their location is perfectly chosen. “Conspicuously invisible,” Lucien had promised: in plain sight from the city walls between the Porte du Temple and the Porte de St. Antoine but still concealed by tall windmills, their large sails swooping and rising slowly in the wind. It is a strong wind this time of day, right after sunset. It carries with it the sounds of rioting crowds and firing muskets, as the upheaval in the city continues through the night. It brings with it the overwhelming smell of gunpowder and ash, and the stench rotting moss. She feels strangely preoccupied and queasy. Perhaps best not to look at the slow revolving sails of the windmills, she decides and she steadies her step on the sludge of the riverbank. “Do not be ridiculous!” she tells herself. “You were hanging from the walls of Vincennes but a few hours ago, as if it was the easiest thing in the world! He will be here and all will be fine in the end. It always is.”  Still she cannot shirk a sense of impending danger, of something amiss. She dismisses it immediately: “Nonsense! We have almost made it. Why worry now?”

She was much more light-hearted when this reckless adventure started.

****

 

It was about a fortnight earlier.

 

> _“M. Broussel is to be arrested. The time is unknown.”_

 

D’ Artagnan’s laconic message to Porthos was pivotal to their plan. They had to be ready and act immediately the moment the arrest was carried out.

It was Madame de Montbazon’s money that bought them the business of a pastry cook called Father Marteau (1). He kept a stand next to the gate of the château de Vincennes, where the Duc de Beaufort has been imprisoned for five long years.

“Can you bake pies?” Milady asked Athos suppressing a giggle, upon reading Madame de Montbazon’s letter.

“How difficult can it be?” he shrugged in his usual nonchalant, impassive tone that clashed with the mischievous look in his eyes. “The real question Madame is this: can you be a baker’s wife?”

“If the outfit is decent,” she responded matching his tone and gaze.

 

The outfit was plain, faded, and ill fitting. It came with a white cap that completely covered her long curls. If she lowered her eyes just so when she spoke, she looked like a simple young country girl. Athos’ doublet was oversized and his breeches were the shorter kind, the ones farmers used to wear about ten years earlier. He too had tucked his long hair, the sign of a cavalier, under an old battered leather hat with a brim that was a bit too narrow.

“We look utterly frightful!” Milady observed as they both stood before the large mirror in her bedroom.

“As long as we sell those pies…” Athos’ attempt to sound serious failed midsentence. They laughed until they both had tears in their eyes.

“We must now agree, Madame” Athos remarked feigning a more somber tone, “that from this moment forward we will take our new roles seriously and no longer fall prey to the hilarity of this operation!”  

She tried to suppress her giggles unsuccessfully, and he softly pulled her to his chest kissing her. “Perhaps _you_ should try that, Monsieur,” she responded, releasing herself from his arms. “I am Milady, if you recall. I must laugh at human frailty!”

He pulled her back again and laid her on the bed, slowly unlacing her ill fitted bodice. “In that case, Madame, since I am suddenly granted this rare opportunity, I must see what it feels like to adore a baker’s wife…”

 

The pies were provided by Porthos’ pastry cook at Bracieux, whom the General praised as one of the best in France. They were loaded fresh every morning in a cart driven by Athos and Milady pretending to be arriving to their new business at Vincennes from their village.

“Excellent pies!” Athos remarked during one of those morning deliveries.

“I am not sure you are supposed to eat the merchandize…” she teased him, declining his offer of a piece. She found their savory smell quite overwhelming this early in the morning. The General is known to be a man with a complex palate.  And so, it turned out, was M. Laramée (2), the Duc de Beaufort’s personal guard at Vincennes!

 

Neither Milady nor Athos expected this to be so easy. M. Laramée had been a good customer of Father Marteau. When Athos and Milady took over the business, he decided to give this new fellow and his wife a chance. “Oh, Madame,” he exclaimed after just one bite. “This pie is divine! Fit for a king!”  

He returned every day after that. It was during those daily rapturous visits to their pie stand that Milady realized another thing about the excellent M. Laramée. He was a good husband who adored his wife and young children, and missed them terribly. So much so that he had devised an elaborate plan just to get a glimpse of them. He would strategically throw his tennis balls beyond the fortress wall when he played with the Duc, more or less at the same time that his wife and children were supposed to stroll by the gardens around the moat. It was the only way he could get to see his family daily.

 

“Seducing M. Laramée with anything other than those pies from Bracieux,” Milady announced, “is out of the question!” She sat at the feet of Athos’ bed, in her silk white shift, drying her long, wet curls with a towel, while Athos read his correspondence leaning against the headboard. It was a letter from Raoul about his new life in Paris and his attempts to tame the Hauteclere, his father’s sword.

“It took me years to figure out what he has discovered about this sword in just a few weeks,” he remarked as he read.  She smiled a proud smile. 

Athos looked up from Raoul’s letter, intrigued, a playful grin at the edge of his lips. “What? No seducing? I thought you were Milady….”

“M. Laramée is a good man!” she objected. “Besides, it will never work. Believe me, the pies are our best chance!”

 

And so it was to be.

 

The Duc, meanwhile, was convinced that his jailers would attempt to poison him in prison. His fears were not entirely unfounded. Vincennes was notoriously unhealthy, so much so that it was alleged the cells were laced in arsenic. It was also true that in the five years of his captivity the Duc had been anything but demure provoking much wrath among his jailers. His mischievous exploits were the talk of Paris, the dismay of Queen and Minister, and the dread of the prison Governor, the long-suffering M. de Chavigny (3).  

Still, M. Laramée was generous towards his prisoner. “The Duc’s fear of poison,” he explained, “is more likely connected to his depressed mood, after he was told that his incarceration at Vincennes was to be for life. It is understandable…” Milady had no doubt that the fine M. Laramée also dreaded an entire life of serving the Duc in prison, a life during which his only encounters with his family would be to gaze at them from the bastions and to visit his home on a few feast days. “I am certain,” the guard continued, “that just a simple bite from your delectable pies Madame, will revive the Duc’s spirits!”

 

Thus, the caring M. Laramée became utterly convinced that it was his idea to introduce the Duc to the incomparable pies of this new vendor! 

 

“And what better way to persuade the Duc,” the guard exclaimed excitedly while conspiring with Athos on the matter, “than to have your charming little wife, supposedly bring me some pies for breakfast while in Monseigneur’s jail cell? I cannot imagine that anyone will be able to withstand such enticing fragrance and exquisite taste as that of your baked masterpieces!” 

Early the next morning Milady walked into the cell of the Duc de Beaufort with a tray of fresh baked pies and a note in her pocket, which no one cared to search since the fine M. Laramée had made sure she was not delayed in her mission to revive the Duc’s low spirits. The Duc was standing looking out the window, his back turned, intentionally ignoring the commotion in his cell.

 

“Ah, Madame!” M. Laramée cried, feigning surprise! “It is so kind of you to bring my breakfast up here today! Oh… such delicious pies! Such tantalizing fragrance! Such rich taste!”

Milady remained silent. “Come closer, damn you!” she thought, as the Duc remained aloof in the distance. The pies were indeed fragrant. The spices made her eyes teary and her stomach slightly turn. The General’s pastry cook at Bracieux was becoming bolder by the day.

“They smell too spicy to me!” the Duc remarked, turning towards Milady for the first time.

“Oh, Monseigneur! They are superb! You must try them for I am convinced just a small bite will lift your spirits!” cried the guard. 

“Leaving this infernal place will lift my spirits, my dear Laramée,” the Duc replied with resignation.

“Look, Monseigneur,” the guard insisted, as he cut a piece with his knife and ate it. “Look! There is no poison!”

The Duc shrugged. “Well, then…” he acquiesced. “I shall have a piece of these acclaimed pies…”

 “What is the verdict Monseigneur?” the eager guard inquired with great anticipation.

“Hmmm…exquisite…” the Duc responded, looking thoughtful. “They remind me of a splendid breakfast, a virtual feast, I had once at the home of a dear old friend, a man of the most discriminating palate…” Milady thought her heart was about to stop. Thankfully, the Duc did not elaborate further on the identity of that friend.

“Madame,” he said, addressing her for the first time. “You and your husband could easily make a good name for yourselves!” 

 “Thank you, Monseigneur!” she whispered, lowering her eyes and pretending to be taken aback by such lofty recognition.  She hoped she was blushing. She walked up to the Duc to take the tray off his hands, and at the same time passed him her note.

The Duc remained completely unaffected, as if absolutely nothing out of the ordinary had happened. It was only later in the day, during one of the rare moments he did not spend under the supervision of M. Laramée and the other guards, that he managed to open Milady’s note.

 

> _“It has began,”_ it said. _“Be ready.”_

 

After that day, and although his spirits were not as lifted as M. Laramée had hoped, the Duc was more amenable to enjoying an occasional pie for breakfast. It was always carried by the baker’s wife, whose shy and sweet demeanor were often noted by M. Laramée for she reminded him of his own dear wife. It was during one of those morning visits that Milady gave the Duc a more unusual note.

 

> _“Ask to play tennis this afternoon,”_ it said. _“Throw as many balls over the east wall. Offer to help retrieving them.”_

 

“I am looking forward to our game today,” the Duc exclaimed, early that afternoon. M. Laramée was concerned about his wellbeing. Keeping the Duc healthy and happy reflected upon him and upon the Governor. It was encouraging to see his moody prisoner more eager about his daily tennis game, despite the fact that he was really bad at it. The Duc missed so many of his shots that afternoon that they eventually run out of tennis balls!

“Permit me to help you retrieve them, dear M. Laramée,” the Duc suggested.

The offer was unusual, but it occurred to the guard that the Duc was finally coming to terms with his lifelong incarceration and had decided that to antagonize his jailers only added to his sadness. He looked forward to conveying this excellent news to M. de Chavigny, the Governor. “Our Great Prisoner is finally compliant!” he would say…

 

The Duc walked onto the bastion. “Hey you!” he called to a gardener working beside the moat. “Can you throw back our tennis balls?”

“Oh! It is you who almost killed me with these ridiculous things!” responded the man, turning towards the bastion. The Duc almost cried out upon seeing him, for he recognized him immediately even though he was in disguise: The Comte de la Fère! So something serious was indeed afoot, he reckoned.

Of all the balls M. de la Fère returned, one landed carefully exactly where the Duc was standing on the bastion. Without hesitation, he picked it up and hid it in his  
pocket. Later that night, in his cell, while his guards had fallen asleep he tore the skin of the ball with his teeth, for he was not allowed any utensils, especially those made of steel or iron. It was a letter. He recognized the handwriting immediately and his heart leaped with joy.

 

> _“Beloved,_
> 
> _I can finally write to you after all these many years. I have not stopped working for your cause. Not one single day. Finally the time has come when you will be free._ _Our brave and courageous friends are preparing this rescue for some time. They are close to you! Be assured of their loyalty and devotion._
> 
>  
> 
> _We have just learned that M. Broussel is to be arrested tomorrow. This is our chance to move while everyone is focused on the riots in the streets.  
> _ _Tomorrow ask that a pie be brought to your cell, a gift for your guard M. Laramée, whose patience and care you would like to reward. The rest will become clear._
> 
> _The moment of your deliverance is drawing near, my beloved. Have patience and faith in your friends and in those of us whose affection has remained strong despite your long absence._
> 
> _Your wholly and forever affectionate,_
> 
> _Marie de Montbazon”_

  

The Duc re-read the letter several times with tears in his eyes. He kissed it fondly before hiding it into the hot ambers of the fireplace. If they were caught his beloved Marie should not be implicated.

 

****

 

The morning of M. Broussel’s arrest, M. de Chavigny, the Governor of Vincennes received his daily correspondence. Overnight, barricades were erected all over Paris, he read. He sat back in his armchair relieved. “Thank God, we are not within the city,” he thought, “or we would probably have barricades now right outside our gates.” He suddenly felt fortunate that his only concern on a day like this was the bad mood of his Great Prisoner.

 

“Your Grace!” The guard who dashed into the Governor’s study without knocking was agitated and breathless.

“What manner of entrance is this, Monsieur?” the Governor retorted, irate.

“Forgive me your Grace,” the man said. “But General du Vallon and his personal guard is at the gate and you said to let you know if ever…”

“General du Vallon?” It was the Governor’s turn to become agitated. Such an unexpected visit was clearly an inspection of some kind. Perhaps his Great Prisoner’s moody disposition troubled the Minister and the Queen. Perhaps there were complaints. Perhaps they were uncertain of his loyalty in these treacherous times…

“Get everyone in the main courtyard,” he ordered. “Everyone needs to be prepared for an inspection. I do not care if you have to drag people out of bed…”

“Everyone?” the guard interjected, “Even the guards in the Duc’s cell?”

“M. Laramée,” will suffice for a few hours, the Governor impatiently exclaimed. “The Duc cannot fly over the walls! Get everyone else here at the courtyard!”

 

There was understandably a great deal of confusion. No one was ready at all, let alone ready for a formal inspection. General du Vallon followed by six of his men, rode into the main courtyard of the prison with pomp and ceremony.

“My dear M. de Chavigny!” he declared as he dismounted. “It has been…. how long? Five years?”

“Your Grace,” the Governor bowed with a smile but unable to hide the quiver in his voice. “It is an honor! To what do we owe this unexpected visit?”

“Unexpected?” Porthos feigned surprise. “I am answering your invitation, Monsieur!”

His tone was so persuasive that the poor Governor wondered for a moment if he had indeed extended an invitation to the General and somehow had forgotten about it. He had not of course. What a terrible mess. M. de Chavigny was a man who abhorred any kind of disorder.

“Of course, my dear Marquis!” M. de Chavigny lied. “Of course! My invitation! I hope you dine with me!”

“Ah,” exclaimed Porthos seemingly elated, “Paris is abuzz with stories of your hospitality, Monsieur! I look forward to confirming them!”

 

*****

 

That is how, quite unexpectedly, M. Laramée found himself the only guard in the Duc’s cell.

“I am sorry, dear friend,” the Duc said. “You seem to have been left behind. I feel responsible! I was planning a small gift for you already! How much more deserved it is now! My dear M. Laramée I have made sure your repast today by far exceeds that of your peers! Ah…and here it is!” A knock on the door, announced the surprise in store for M. Laramée. 

Milady walked into the room, coy and demure, her eyes lowered, her voice but a whisper. “Monseigneur, I bring what you ordered,” she said closing the door behind her as she entered. The pie she brought was larger than the usual ones, its golden crust decorated with birds and flowers that were almost lifelike. Porthos’ pastry cook at Bracieux had truly outdone himself.  

“This is an actual work of art, a real feast for the senses, is it not so my dear M. Laramée?” the Duc proclaimed with excitement. “It is my gift to you, for your patience and kindness to me all these years!”

“Oh, Monseigneur!” The guard was almost tearful. “I have no words…” And he stared at the pie with such longing one would think he had never seen a pie before.

“Such a pity that I have no utensils to serve you, as any good host should…” the Duc continued seemingly distraught.

M. Laramée felt so deeply touched and flattered that he did not hesitate one moment. “Monseigneur,” he said. “I am deeply honored… I have done nothing to deserve this… Please permit me to lend you my knife…”

“Thank you M. Laramée!”

Taking the knife so generously offered, the Duc cut a slice through the brittle golden crust. “Dear me!” he exclaimed! “This pie is unusual!”

 

It was unusual indeed. Removing just one slice revealed that its filling was no filling at all. Nested there in the middle of the broken gold crust were a rope ladder, and two loaded pistols. It took a few seconds for M. Laramée to realize what he was looking at. “What…What is this?” he muttered.

“It is a rescue…” Milady retorted no longer demure and blushing, with one of the pistols already in her hand aiming directly at M. Laramée who stared back at her speechless.  

“I fear so, old friend,” the Duc continued, his guard’s knife now tucked in his belt and the second pistol in his hand. “Do not even think of raising an alarm, for we will be forced to silence you immediately. Speaking for myself, it would upset me extremely to be forced to do so…”

“No…wait, Monseigneur!” cried the guard. “You have my word that I shall not cry out! I do this for my dear wife and my little ones! But, I beg you…. make sure that it appears I resisted! I will be forever grateful, Monseigneur if you help me preserve my position and my good name!”

 

In another life, Milady would have shot the man right there to make sure he did not raise the alarm after they left. “You should not take killing so lightly…” Aramis had admonished her once, in a situation not too dissimilar. It was good advice. “We could tie him onto the chair, Monseigneur!” she proposed instead.

“Yes!” the guard chimed in, “use my own belt, Monseigneur! And you can use the handkerchief in my pocket as a gag,” he added. “For they must not wonder why I never cried out. Oh…and one more thing… please… injure me in some fashion… for they will style me a coward otherwise!”

“Good old friend,” the Duc said with much emotion. “I will do anything to help you.”

Much later that evening, long after the departure of General du Vallon who was clearly displeased by the ill prepared dinner, the poor quality of wine, and the condition of the guard at Vincennes, M. Laramée would be discovered in the Duc’s empty cell, tied onto a chair and gagged, with a large bump on his head.

 

*****

Milady and the Duc hurried through the empty corridors of the château… “How is this possible?” the Duc wondered.

“M. du Vallon has made it possible,” she explained.

They reached the east wall. Milady indicated two small iron rods where they might tie the rope ladder so that it hung completely outside the fortress. “Here, Monseigneur!”

The descent was not as simple as she had imagined, for a strong wind from the river swayed the light rope ladder back and forth, scraping it with much noise against the stones of the wall. Above them, they suddenly heard footsteps. This should not be. All guards were supposed to have been distracted by Porthos’ decision to invite himself for an inspection and a dinner at Vincennes. Milady and the Duc stopped their descent midway. Both clung to the wall making an effort to avoid even breathing, while the lower edge of the rope ladder continued to sway noisily in the wind.

 

“I am certain I heard something, lieutenant!” The man speaking sounded apologetic.

“Cadet, stop trying to impress me, and get yourself to the courtyard where we all have to impress a General!” the other man retorted impatiently. “We have no time for this nonsense!”

 

Milady and the Duc continued faster this time, gliding down the rope ladder rather than descending it. Crossing the moat was easy, for it was neither too deep nor too far to swim especially since no one was left on top of the bastion to stop them or sound the alarm. Athos waited on the other side, armed and with horses. They rode to an old barn almost completely covered by ivy. It stood in the midst of a small wilderness of unplowed fields not too far from Vincennes. The Duc wore a new outfit that made him look like a simple merchant and Milady removed the wet outfit of the baker’s wife returning to her own clothes. The three separated right there, Athos riding towards St. Denis, as a decoy, in case anyone would pursue them or try to track their escape. Milady and the Duc rode to the opposite direction, towards the river. This separation was Milady’s idea. She had no intention of having Athos meet Lucien, although she had no doubt that Athos knew the identity of the man helping them with the Duc’s escape.

 

****

The barge carrying the Duc to freedom now sails silently towards Giverny (4). It is already dark. Milady rides off towards the city of St. Denis. The plan is to meet Athos at the “Colombe d’ Or” an inn right outside the city gates. The two of them are bound for the border the next morning. The Duc’s escape will be discovered soon, if it has not already. Athos will be among the first people suspected. She will probably be the second: his wife, who has defied the French Queen’s orders for more than a decade…

She feels tired, but mostly exasperated following her meeting with Lucien. What is the matter with all these men who feel obligated to protect her? Lucien knows her better than this. She is not some frail flower that requires an escort to ride to St. Denis. An escort! Has Lucien ever tried this with his wife? And what if Athos recognized one of his men? She always marvels at the inability of men to consider the implications of their actions. How they act first and think later. She hopes Raoul is better than that…

 

She arrives at the inn, in pouring rain. The innkeeper, a retired soldier from Porthos’ regiment, shows her into a backroom where Athos waits impatiently pacing up and down. The room is dark, just a fire burning in the fireplace.

“Alessandra!” Athos exclaims, the moment he sees her.  “Good Lord! Alessandra, are you injured?”

“What is wrong with all these men trying to protect me suddenly,” she thinks. “Nothing at all is wrong with me!” she is about to say.

She does not.

Everything turns black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Father Marteau : Character invented by Dumas in “Twenty Years After” (see esp. ch. 21.) I borrow the character and basic storyline here regarding Father Marteau’s pies from Dumas. 
> 
> (2) Laramée (sic) : La Ramée. The character is based on Dumas’ “Twenty Years After” character of the same name (chapters 18-21.) La Ramée is mentioned in accounts of Beaufort’s escape from Vincennes. According to the Memoirs of Guy Joli (Mémoires, Geneva 1779, i. 13) he was the Governor of Vincennes. However, the Governor was the usually absent, M. de Chavigny and La Ramée was probably his deputy. 
> 
> (3) M. de Chavigny : Lèon Le Bouthilier (1608-1652,) Comte de Chavigny was a Minister of State and member of the Regency Council. He had been appointed Governor of the Château de Vincennes by Richelieu. There was a rumor, that he was Richelieu’s son.
> 
> (4) Escape of the Duc de Beaufort from the Château de Vincennes: De Beaufort escaped from Vincennes on Whit Sunday (May 31) 1648. Here the timing is altered (it happens in late September.) The storylines here are inspired by Dumas’ “Twenty Years After” (ch. 18-21) although there are many differences. In Dumas the rescue is organized by Athos, Aramis (who is a Frondeur,) Rochefort (who is their ally and a Frondeur,) and Madame de Chevreuse (Raoul’s mother,) and is carried out by Grimaud, Athos’ loyal servant, who has nothing to do with Lucien Grimaud in the BBC series and in this story.


	17. Girl on Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A desperate mother embarks on a reckless and dangerous path to get into Paris....

‘Looks like a girl, but she's a flame  
So bright, she could burn your eyes  
Better look the other way  
You can try but you'll never forget her name …. (Alicia Keys)

This probably wasn’t one of her better ideas. It might, arguably, be the worst idea – to say it might be unwise was like saying it was going to be dangerous….and very dark. She could imagine what Lucien would say or do – if he knew she had even thought about this much less do it.

Don’t think about Lucien she thought – hopefully he would never learn what she had done. She certainly had no intention of confessing to this mad scheme. She paused, her breathing shallow and closed her eyes to steady herself. The acrid smell of fear hovered too close – she must keep her wits about her. She could feel the sweat running down her face into her eyes, and on down her neck and chest. She dared not wipe her eyes. Her hands were covered with dirt – indeed she was completely covered in dirt and there was barely enough room around her to move her arms freely. Dirt drifted down in a constant cloud. She would not think about what that might mean. 

She had left the two boys close to the location of the tunnel shaft. If she was not allowed to enter through the city gate – they would use the tunnels. Lucien had told her about the subterranean tunnels, used by scoundrels, bandits, smugglers, rebels and if needed – one woman and two boys – to get under the city wall and into Paris.

The beginning of the tunnel had been promising. She had climbed down the iron rungs to the opening - narrow but she could walk, slightly stooped, but without too much trouble. They had slogged through several sections of muddy water that lapped over their ankles but were now on dry dirt again. Joseph practically scampered ahead of her and Jean was careful with the lantern – the boys were excited by this grand adventure. She had been right to bring them – they had no difficulty moving in the small spaces and their animated voices distracted her anxiety. The only light was the candle lanterns they carried casting small circles of light around each of them. The small amount of tunnel before them was visible briefly and disappeared into darkness behind them. Beyond the moving flickering pools of light - it was very dark.

They were moving slowly – careful to check the markings on the wall at every junction to a new tunnel. She had Lucien’s map in her pocket, but she would not need it. She was looking for one symbol that indicated which tunnel to take. She thought they must be close to the where they would climb out – that is, if they didn’t fall into one of the bottomless holes, or the roof didn’t cave in and bury them alive or the candles go out and they miss the markings and be totally lost. If Lucien knew what she was doing …she pushed the thought away again. It didn’t bear thinking about.

Besides - it was Porthos’ fault anyway…

>>

Henri Levesque was leading his horse toward the stable when a sound brought him up short. Frowning - he turned toward the road – he couldn’t see it, but he heard it. Horses – running - the clatter of a carriage out of control.

‘Mother,’ cried the fair-haired boy looking quickly at Henri. ‘Stay here,’ ordered the older man as he mounted quickly and kicked his horse to a gallop toward the road.

The carriage crested the low hill and barreled down the road. He pulled up short. He could see her – she was driving the carriage - fast and reckless. Was she being chased? She was managing the four horses with expertise, slowing as she drew closer to the house.

‘What the hell…’ Henri’s voice was taut as he jumped from the saddle. The grooms were running from the stable toward the carriage. With nimble grace, she stepped down and her young son threw his arms around her waist, ‘Mother,’ his voice muffled in her skirts, ‘were you being chased? Were there bandits?’ he asked anxiously but his eyes were wide with excitement at his mother’s wild ride.

She laughed, ‘no bandits, no runaway carriage.’ She ruffled his hair and bent down to kiss him, ‘see – Mother is fine.’ She looked up at Henri who was scowling at her. She grinned cheerfully at him and turned to issue orders to the grooms.

‘My horse – saddled now! I leave for Paris immediately.’ He stopped scowling and stared at her instead. She was waving a scroll case at him and telling a footman to carry a small trunk inside. 

‘I have it!’ she cried her face animated and glowing, ‘I have it, Henry – I know her name and where she was sent to.’ She was going up the stairs and turned back, ‘I’ll take him with me,’ waving her hand at the stable boy who was still standing in the yard, ‘saddle a horse young man!’ 

Henri turned to look at the boy who looked at him and then to her. He started to reply but she was already through the door, ’I leave within the hour!’ drifted back to him.

He pursed his mouth and took a deep breath - She was doing no such thing. Where the hell was Lucien when his wife needed… _management_! 

‘You cannot ride to Paris with a _boy_!’ he called out to her as he strode up the stairs after her.

Thirty minutes later they were back in front of the house and still arguing – and with an audience. Two grooms, two footmen, house steward and housekeeper, and two stable boys in attendance, shifting from one foot to the other, looking back and forth at the two combatants. No doubt wagers had been placed on the outcome.  


‘You cannot come with me - we both know Lucien’s orders when he is away,’ she said, checking the saddle and securing the saddle bags behind the saddle. ‘You must stay here.’

‘Those orders include you not riding alone to Paris,’ Henri argued. ‘This is very reckless!’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she snorted, ignoring the charge of reckless, ‘there is no such order,’ she countered. She turned, leaning against the horse, arms crossed over her chest. He didn’t like the look of that – it was the same posture Lucien used when he turned into an intractable thick-headed rock. She could be as stubborn as her husband.

‘He would be furious at both of us if he knew you were doing this – it’s too dangerous for a woman alone.’

‘I won’t be alone,’ she answered smiling, pinching his cheek playfully. Nothing could spoil her mood. She had answers and she was going to Lucien.

‘I’m taking him,’ she waved a hand at the stable boy who was looking uncertainly back and forth at each of them. He was careful to maintain a serious and disinterested look – the truth was he was vibrating with excitement at the prospect of going to the city. But Monsieur Henri was scowling at him and Madame– so he scowled too. 

‘Actually, I’m taking them both,’ she said and waved her hand at the second boy. Eyes wide with astonishment the boy straightened up and exchanged glances with the first boy – unsuppressed grins spreading across both their faces. They ran to the stable to saddle horses.

Henri’s scowl grew deeper, ‘this is ludicrous – they are _children_!’ and raked his hand through his hair in frustration.

‘They are exactly what is needed,’ she said, and slid the long gun into its sheath, her sword on the opposite side. The boys emerged from the stable leading two saddled horses.

‘Joseph?’ can you shoot?’ she asked the larger boy. He nodded fervently. His eyes were bright with anticipation of this adventure with Madame. He settled his cap firmly on his head. 

‘Mostly rabbits Madame.’ She smiled at Henri and gave his arm a poke.

‘ _Rabbits_ Henri!’ she widened her eyes at Henri in amazement at these extraordinary shooting skills. He was not impressed. He rolled his eyes at her and started to lodge another protest.

‘If he can hit a rabbit he can hit a highwayman,’ she interrupted, ‘or a city guard.’ She poked him playfully.

She handed Joseph a pistol, ‘careful – it’s loaded,’ she cautioned. The boy tucked it into his belt, angling the barrel away from his legs - the grip was almost knocking against his chin.

‘Besides – they are the right size,’ and poked him again to help her mount.

‘What the hell does that mean?’ he grumbled and lowered his hands for her foot lifting her into the saddle.

‘I must get into the city. I must find Lucien.’

>>

The General du Vallon was swaying back and forth on his horse. He had been pretending to be in a bad-temper and foul mood for so long that he actually was in a bad temper and foul mood. Arriving in full dress regalia for a dinner to which he had not actually been invited had resulted in a great flurry of hand-wringing apologies from the embarrassed governor of the prison. The befuddled man had launched on a long bewildering and frenzied ramble on the fault lying entirely with the rioters in the city causing disruption and chaos everywhere to good and noble men – including mixed-up dinner invitations - and cursed his secretary for his idiocy.

The shrieking harangue had given him a headache – but he had let it go on for the required length of time, lowering his bulk into a large chair, squeezing his eyes shut, pinching his nose in suppressed irritation and sighing theatrically with forbearance, accepting a glass of mediocre wine and drinking the swill - grimacing in disgust– all for proper effect. Finally – he stood abruptly – pitching the chair over backward and glowering at the cowering governor. He stomped from the room with the man following him babbling shrilly for him to return the following night – _please! Your Grace_!

‘I demand you send your guards to find and arrest these miscreant rioters who have disrupted my dinner!’ he thundered at the governor of the prison as he stomped from the room to return to the city. The governor opened and closed his mouth like a speared and stranded fish, eyes bulging in fear. As the General rode away – he shouted for his men and the governor collapsed into a chair. Good heavens! Such a disaster!

From a distance the General could hear a heated commotion at the city gate. As he drew closer he could see a cloaked figure – a woman – furious and blazing at his lieutenant. The officer, with some degree of courtesy as befitted a noble woman, was attempting to turn her away from the gate. She batted away his hands angrily, blue eyes sparking flames and raking his face. He could feel her fury as she came closer.

‘What is the trouble here Lieutenant Batton?” demanded the General irritably.

‘General,’ saluted the young and agitated officer, ‘I have explained to Madame that the gates are closed. No-one may enter the city. There are rioters in the streets….’

‘Is this not _Paris_?’ she blazed at him, ‘there are always disturbances in the street! That’s how we know we are _in_ Paris! Now open the gate – I have no time for you,’ she glowered at the officer, hands on hips.

Porthos narrowed his eyes…the voice … He dismounted stiffly and strode to the woman who was still advancing, with fire in her eyes, on his retreating officer. He had no time for heated and pesky women.

‘What is this? storming the city gates Madame? you perhaps have a little army in your little purse?’ he grumbled as he approached her. The guard snickered – emboldened in challenging the heated angry noblewoman by the presence of his General.

She ignored him and continued her blistering attack on the guard, ‘you are an _idiot_! open the gate – I have business in the city and cannot be delayed!’ she demanded in a voice that was used to both command and obedience.

The city is unsafe Madame,’ explained Lieutenant Batton, ‘our orders….’ But she wasn’t listening to his reason.

‘It is going to _unsafe_ here in a minute if you do not open this gate,’ she declared - hands on hips and glaring at the officer, ‘I have a house in city! I am in the Queen’s favor. _Open the damn gate_!’

The General halted in mid-stride and peered at the fiery woman before him. It couldn’t be – he hadn’t seen her in years – but he knew that stubborn stance and commanding voice. A broad grin split his face and a deep guffaw erupted from his big chest – she whirled to him.

‘What is so amusing _Your Grace_ ,’ she spat out the honorific, blue eyes blazing at him.

‘Don’t hurt my men Sophia,’ his grin widened as did her eyes, ‘I may yet need them.’ She squinted at him, frowning.

‘Porthos!’ her mouth dropped open in amazement and she flung herself at him throwing her arms around his neck and his laugh deepened as he caught her and crushed her against him. ‘How did you know it was me?’

'Mayhem and uproar – who else could it be?’ his eyes crinkled up in amusement as he set her down but held her arms, giving her a little shake. ‘Where do you think you are going?’

'There,’ she waved her hand toward the gate, ‘inside!’ ‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘Absolutely not.’

'Porthos…’ she started. He shook his head adamantly. He could not let her into the city now. ‘No – no – no.’ Rioters – armed and very dangerous. Absolutely not! Go back to the inn,’ he tilted his chin toward the road, ‘and stay there for the night.’ 

She opened her mouth to speak and he leaned forward – thumb and forefinger squeezing her lips together and holding her mouth shut. Her blue eyes flared at him.

‘No,’ he said again frowning severely at her, ‘and I don’t care about what dinner or salon or whatever it is – forget it,’ he said in a commanding tone that had his officer at attention and the woman glaring at him in open mutiny.

Was she really here for some entertainment? She hadn’t mentioned Lucien so perhaps she didn’t know what he was doing. Would Lucien have told her about the escape plan? that would have been very risky. Or, perhaps he had told her and that is why she was here – to do what? to stop him? help him? Had something gone wrong?

He visibly shook his head to clear his muddled thoughts. Whatever the reason – she could not enter the city. Absolutely not. He looked down at her narrowed eyes and speculative look.

Why wouldn’t he take her in with him? That would be so simple – let her go to her house and leave her there. Not every street was dangerous – life was going on somewhere in Paris. Did he know about the escape from Vincennes? No – he couldn’t – or the guards would be searching already. But what if he was involved and keeping her out so she wouldn’t get involved…did he know about Lucien? Had something gone wrong?

She had to get into the city.

She shrugged, ‘as you say General, I shall return to the inn and try tomorrow.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘Tomorrow!’ and she waved as she rode away. He watched her go. Well that was easy he thought - uneasily.

That was too easy.

What was she up to?

>>  


They were moving uphill – a good sign. She had not seen a marker in awhile and could only hope they would soon see iron rungs set into the rock to climb and emerge into the shaft on the other side of the wall. The tunnel had widened, and the boys were able to walk next to each other. They must be close.

>>

Porthos rode his horse toward his quarters – his officers in front and behind him. Occasionally, a few rocks came flying at them from a roving crowd of angry men and women, brandishing an axe or a shovel. But none were so idiotic to challenge horse mounted soldiers with swords drawn and armed with muskets. As the soldiers rode toward the crowd, they quickly dispersed – only to form again in another street.

Porthos kept careful watch, alert to anything that signaled the prison escape but couldn’t keep his mind from drifting to Sophia. Something was needling at the back of his mind - it bothered him - she had quit the dispute too soon. Well – she was older, perhaps more…mature? He snorted - what an absurd notion. Perhaps Lucien had gotten her under control – another absurd notion. He doubted even Grimaud could control her.

When had she ever backed away from argument? She could be impulsive and impossible to control- Athos was constantly threatening to lock her up in the Bastille. She drove him to distraction with her stubbornness and could be unbelievably reckless….

He drew his horse to a sudden stop as a terrible ridiculous not-to be-believed thought shouted at him – she wouldn’t dare…not even she would consider…

She would do exactly what he was thinking. He looked around to get his bearings. He whirled his horse, his startled men following him on their sudden change in direction. He knew where she would be – if she didn’t get herself killed. Then, he would take her straight to the Bastille and _chain her to a wall_!

>>

They emerged into a large chamber. It was much cooler, and she took a deep breath. The air was stale but not filled with dust. As they crossed the chamber, they could see iron rungs, set into the rock wall, several feet above them. _The way out_! 

Joseph boosted Jean up to grasp the first rung and pull himself up. Joseph laced his fingers together and bent over.

‘Madame put your foot here.’ She set her foot in his laced hands and between Jean pulling and Joseph lifting, she managed to grab the second rung and swing her feet up. She gasped with the effort and paused to catch her breath. Jean was scrambling up the rungs ahead of her. She was exhausted, filthy, hot and very thirsty. Her tired and aching body protested this new effort. She reached for the next rung and pulled her legs and feet up after her. She looked up the shaft – the rungs disappeared into darkness. She couldn’t see Jean. How far did she need to climb? She reached for the next rung.

Jean’s voice drifted down to her – but she couldn’t hear the words. She reached for the next rung. Her foot slipped, and Joseph called up to her.

‘Careful Madame,’ he called encouragingly, ‘don’t try to hurry.’

She reached for the next rung and lifted her foot again. If she fell, she would be killed. And if she wasn’t killed she wasn’t sure she had the strength to get up. She was so close. She knew her child’s name. Lucien was here. She had to do this. She reached for the next rung and tears of frustration filled her eyes, gritty with dirt. She couldn’t see Jean or hear him anymore. She knew Joseph was below her, but she couldn’t see or hear him either. She was alone, climbing this never-ending ladder leading nowhere. She reached for another rung.

Suddenly, her feet were swinging free in the air – she shrieked in fear as her body levitated out over the empty space below. Strong hands were under her arms lifting her into the air and then she was out of the hole, lying on her back on top of someone. Sweet heaven – cool night air – she breathed it in greedily.

‘Last time we were like this you were having a nightmare,’ boomed a deep voice in her ear. ‘Although I do believe you didn’t smell like a tunnel rat.’

She closed her stinging crying eyes in complete relief – _Porthos._


	18. The River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old friends work together to rescue a noble prisoner....but more than one rescue it needed tonight!

Lucien stood under the awning in the center of the small barge, watching the poleman. They were moving steadily up-river, sails furled, staying close to the riverbank, the men only occasionally dipping their oars into the water to provide additional power. The traffic was light on the river, only a few pleasure boats. Moving flurries in the city had kept many safely tucked in their homes and he could hear a city besieged with disturbances in the streets – shouts, gunfire, smoke drifting over the city from fires, the cries of a mob thronging the streets fronting the palace and government buildings. The results of the diversion were well under way. He hoped the rest of this plan would go as designed. 

It might have been better for the barge to be one among many rather than a few – but he couldn’t do anything about it. du Sable came up next him and the two men stood silently watching their destination come closer. The men waiting for them were motionless tiny figures. Yusuf, Lucien’s steward appeared silently and handed each man a small cup. They sipped the hot thick dark drink. 

‘Mmm,’ duSable grunted his approval and drained his cup handing it back to the steward. ‘Always enjoy that - where did you find it?’ 

‘Years ago, in public house in Constantinople,’ replied Lucien handing his empty cup to Yusuf who bowed and left. ‘I 've been sending it to England for years. Brought it to Marseille and cannot get enough of it.’ He had found Yusuf in the same public house. Importing kahve was a lucrative business and making him and his partners very rich. Rich enough that he didn’t need to be risking his life or his men ferrying aristocratic escapees from prison to safety to suit some political objective. He cared nothing for politics except to know enough to side-step any trouble to his business caused by politicians.

He walked to the railing and leaned out to see the smaller barge trailing behind them. If his plan failed, he would use the smaller and faster ship to get their passenger down river. He walked forward and watched as the landing site drew closer. The marsh grasses waved gently in the evening breeze and the graceful turn of the windmills sliced the air with a loud whoosh. There was a small dock extending out a few feet. He could see the stacked sacks of grain.

He had told her, ‘conspicuously visible.’ The windmills would offer some protection, but they would not be completely invisible from the guards on the city walls. They were familiar with his barges loading grain from that location and where sacks of grain awaited him – sacks that he had deposited there the day before. There was no reason to hide. The wind was strong, and their return trip would be fast. He listened carefully but heard nothing but the lapping of water along the length of the boat. It was not yet dark. 

Two men in the stern and two in the bow leaped from the deck to the grassy bank to set the lines, centering the dock to the barge, the poleman pushing hard to slow the movement. Within a few minutes they were hovering as close as possible – the current tugging at the boat encouraging it to reverse its direction, but the men held it fast. Their noble passenger would need to leap the gap.

His men moved quickly and efficiently, lifting the sacks and tossing them to waiting men on the deck. A tall man slipped among the crew, and lifted a sack, staggering slightly under its weight. 

du Sable snorted, ‘not quite up to a little work, is he?’ Lucien chuckled, ‘I believe the heaviest thing he lifts is a tennis racquet,’ and jumped to the dock, ignoring the tall man and striding toward the woman standing back from the men.

‘Any trouble?’ he asked her as he approached. She shook her head and watched the men load the sacks. The tall man was not noticeable for his height as much as the arrogant tilt of his head and posture and the way he held himself away from the others – careful not to brush against another man.

‘He’s not exactly incognito, is he?’ she commented. He laughed and stepped closer to her. She was pale and her voice uncertain. She was rubbing her hands together and he couldn’t tell if she was cold or nervous. Perhaps both.

‘Anne,’ he started, taking her hands between his, looking down quickly and frowning. Her hands were ice cold. He looked up at her wan face and his frown deepened.

‘You are not well,’ he stated. She sighed. She knew that voice – he was preparing to tell her what to do.

‘I don’t have time to argue with you,’ she retorted, pulling her hands gently from his. ‘I have to go,' she insisted.

‘Fine,’ he said and grabbed the reins of the second horse. ‘I’m coming with you.’

‘No!’ she said – a little too loudly, the men turned to look at them, watching Lucien for orders.

‘No,’ she repeated in a quieter tone. ‘You must get him downriver. There are riders waiting for him.’

‘My men are perfectly capable of sailing downriver,’ he replied, arms folding across his chest. ‘You are not well Anne and I’m not letting you ride alone to where ever you are meeting Athos.’ She started – she hadn’t known for certain that he suspected Athos to be involved. She had tried very hard to keep the adversaries apart and not revive old memories. 

‘Lucien,’ she placed a hand on his arm and stepped close to him, ‘please – lets stay with the plan. No deviations – its critical the Duc get safely to the next rendezvous. I will be safe. It’s not far to where I meet him.’ Lucien didn’t move nor take his eyes from hers.

‘Good heavens!’ she widened her eyes at him is exasperation, ‘how does she put up with you?’ She poked him in the chest. Sophia had little patience of her own with which to manage his intractability He ignored her as he would ignore his wife under a similar circumstance.

‘Is he blind?’ he asked rhetorically, ‘it’s clear you are unwell. He shouldn’t have left you alone,’ his tone carried his disgust for the man who was supposed to keep her safe. Lucien was intolerant about Athos – he did not hide his disapproval of her husband or his past treatment of her. She couldn’t argue with the past – but she did not have time to discuss the present or convince Lucien that circumstances had changed between them.

In days past, she had trusted Lucien as she had trusted no one else. He kept her secrets safe and had helped her many times as her unforgiving husband or devious patron threatened her. There was an understanding and a genuine affection between them that time and distance would never alter. But - he was often exasperated with the risks she took and could be very stubborn about protecting her. He had never trusted Athos with her safety - or anything.

‘It is not far,’ she repeated. ‘You will cause me more anxiety if you do not stay with the Duc and get him away,’ she squeezed his arm, imploring him, ‘please Lucien.’ Still he hesitated and then pursed his mouth into a severe line and shook his head.

Reluctantly he lifted her to the saddle. He held onto the reins looking up at her and still frowning. She smiled encouragingly and touched his cheek, mouthing a silent thank you. She took the reins from him, turned the horse and rode away. He watched her go and shook his head again. He turned around to survey the situation. The grain was loaded, the men on the barge waiting for him. The tall man had retreated the far side of the deck and was sitting down. Lucien laughed. Barge crews did not sit down while their masters were standing. But what would a Duc know of these rules.

He strode down the short dock and jumped to the deck and nodded to du Sable. The riverman issued orders to the crew, and the barge moved into the current and downstream.

Lucien watched as the barge drifted silently past the island. The custom house was on the western side, just beyond the bridge. It was now dark and likely the customs house was unmanned. If it was occupied, they would be hailed by the customs officer and perhaps only one guard. He knew the customs officers and wouldn’t ignore their hails – they knew him, his ships and barges. It was safer to stop and let them search the ship. He trusted none of them knew the Duc d’Beaufort.

‘Grimaud!’ came the shout from the small stone structure. ‘Emil!’ he called back. ‘Have you any decent wine in there?’ 

The officer laughed, ‘I thought you might be bringing me some,’ he joked. There were two guardsmen standing on the small dock watching them approach. He didn’t know either of these men.

‘I’ve got what you need my friend,’ called Lucien. Indeed, he had several bottles of an excellent wine for just this purpose. The crew skillfully maneuvered the barge toward the small dock. The officer and guard caught the rope and the barge came to slow stop, grinding against the stone wall that disappeared into the water. Lucien jumped to the dock, a bottle of wine in each hand which he held aloft. The customs officer came out of the customs house smiling and carrying glasses. The two city guardsmen moved toward the boat. Lucien ignored them.

‘Let’s have the glasses!’ he called to the customs officer. The two men sat on upended crates drinking deeply, the customs officer lifting his glass in salute, ‘excellent,’ he pronounced of the wine. The river flowed past them silently, but the noise from the city carried clearly in the night – the fighting was still going on – sporadic gunshots, fires burning, shouts and cries of both people and soldiers. They listened silently. 

‘I like it better here,’ observed Lucien. The customs man laughed and nodded in agreement. They talked for a few minutes more of their families and traded gossip about other captains they knew. They drained their glasses and Lucien stood. ‘Keep the bottles.’ He turned toward the boat. The city guard was peering into the deep shadows than enveloped the deck.

‘We should inspect this barge,’ he demanded of the customs man who glanced toward Lucien and shrugged his shoulders, apologetically. Lucien said nothing. He stepped to his boat and gave orders for the men to stand down and waved the guardsman onto the boat. He didn’t need to look at his men to know their state of alertness – knives and muskets in their belts within easy reach. Tension mounted as the guardsman walked among them, the second guard absently shifting the long gun in his arms to point in the general direction of the deck.

The guard stooped to lift the corner of a covering oilcloth and studied the stacked sacks. He looked back to Lucien questioning. ‘Grain,’ said Lucien, and the man grunted, dropping the cover. He turned to the man sitting on the deck and nudged him with his boot. The man didn’t move but hunched his shoulders and drew his coat closer around him.

‘Drunk,’ said the nearest crewman. The guard swung his gaze to the man who spoke and frowned. He turned back to the sitting man and kicked him – harder. ‘Get up,’ he ordered. The man mumbled something and didn’t move. Lucien strode to the man and grasped him by his coat and hauled him to his feet.

‘You heard him!’ he said firmly, ‘stand up dammit.’ The man staggered and rolled his head, stinking of wine. Lucien looked at the soldier exasperated, ‘he’s drunk – I will throw him into the river and be done with him. He’s useless to me.’ He started to drag him toward the railing and the guard stopped him, studying the lolling head shadowed in the darkness and looked at Lucien – clearly disinterested in his problems with his crews. He waved his hand and stepped away. Lucien dropped the man to the deck unceremoniously and followed the guard.

The guard was moving toward the center of the barge, studying a man standing apart from the others. He was slightly crouched, watching intently as the guard approached him. The guard stopped a few feet away and then suddenly he pointed to the man, shouting, ‘you there! come here!’ Surprised by this unexpected action, the soldier on the dock turned in that direction, swinging his gun around.

The man burst into action, running toward the guard shoving him violently to the deck and continuing toward the railing. Lucien lunged to intercept him.

‘Stop!’ roared the fallen guard as the man raced for the railing. ‘Shoot him!’ he ordered the second officer. The long gun barked, the man disappeared over the railing into the darkness and the water below. Lucien shouted and fell blood flowing onto the deck under him. He had been shot.

The men exploded into action – charging the two armed men with drawn muskets, their fists raised to smash into faces, du Sable standing over Lucien, shouting at the guards.

‘Stop!’ commanded Lucien with a captain's voice, lying on his back, holding his left arm and grimacing from the pain, ‘what the hell Emil?!’ he demanded, struggling to get to his feet. Yusuf was next to him, an arm under his shoulder to help him stand.

‘I’m sure that was a rebel or escaped prisoner,’ cried the guard to the customs officer who had jumped onto the boat to assist Lucien.

‘Well which is it you fool! A rebel or a prisoner? You could have killed one of these innocent men!’ the customs officer was trying to see Lucien’s wound, so he didn’t see the men exchange glances. No one had ever called them innocent.

‘I was sure,’ the guard mumbled and placed his hat on his head. He looked at Lucien, ‘apologies Monsieur.’ Lucien glared at him, curling his lip in fury. His arm throbbed and burned with the impact of the musket ball. It wasn’t the first time he had been shot – but it hurt like hell – everytime.

He pulled away from the customs officer, ‘we will get underway, my man will take care of this,’ he lifted the injured arm. ‘Yes, of course my friend. Please accept my apologies,’ the customs man was stricken with remorse, ‘this is most unfortunate. I will report this reckless man,’ he glared at the guard who stared stonily back at him.

They drew away from the customs house, Lucien sitting in a chair while Yusuf removed his tunic and rolled up his sleeve to look at the injury. The bullet had passed clean through. 

du Sable was grinning at him and handing him a bottle of wine, ‘very theatrical!’ he pronounced. Lucien took a deep drink. He glared at the riverman.

‘Your second escaped prisoner was a good idea,’ he said grudgingly, ‘except for me getting shot.’

‘Oh hell – you’ve been shot before,’ du Sable grinned at him. ‘Worse than that,’ he waved the bottle at the wounded arm. Yusuf frowned at him and the riverman grinned at him too. He passed the bottle back to Lucien.

‘This will help,’ he advised and stood to go back to watch their progress. Lucien lay back on the bed Yusuf had made for him. Hell – he hadn’t thought he’d get shot. Sophia would kill him for this mess. He took another drink, closed his eyes and his thoughts drifted a little. He took another drink and felt Yusuf’s ministrations to his injury at a distance. He was thinking of his wife’s soft body and iridescent blue eyes, her long slender legs wrapped around him, her dark hair streaming across the pillows…. he raised himself on his good arm.

‘Get us to Giverny du Sable,’ he called to his captain. ‘And get that noble bastard off my boat.’

>>

The barge was vanishing from sight into the dark night and then it was around a bend in the river and gone. Hoofbeats receded in the distance. 

He turned to Yusuf, ‘Paul should be here soon.’ The steward nodded and looked again at the seeping wound frowning. ‘It needs cleaning again,’ he said to Lucien, a worried frown furrowing his brow. The sound of horses stopped Lucien’s answer.

Paul de Vry rode fast into the clearing, leading two horses and leaping to the ground before his horse had stopped. He took in Lucien’s bloody arm, ‘what happened?’ 

Lucien waved his hand dismissively, ‘what’s wrong,’ he countered. Paul hesitated and then produced a crumpled paper from his pocket.

‘This came for you,’ he said angrily. ‘Someone has taken Sophia.’ Lucien’s face shifted to a stony countenance – his mouth compressed into a hard line, dark eyes hooded and menacing.

‘Who?’

Paul shook his head, ‘I don’t know – I think some of the men from the street saw her and the boys and took them. It’s a miracle they weren’t killed if they were thought to be friendly to the Queen. Someone must have recognized her as they want you.’

‘Sophia is in Paris?’ he asked, his voice rising in disbelief. What was she doing here? What boys? 

‘I believe she learned something of importance at the abbey,’ said Paul. Lucien grimaced. She was trying to get to him – she had found something about the child.

‘Where are they holding her?’ he was scanning the message. ‘I know the place,’ said Paul turning to mount his horse. ‘I’ll take you.’ Lucien shook his head.

‘No - it says to come alone – or she dies.’

‘You cannot go alone,’ said Paul alarmed at what Lucien intended. ‘I go alone,’ said Lucien, ‘I cannot risk it.’ He pulled his tunic on over his shirt and threw his cape over his shoulders.

‘You don’t know how many will be there,’ protested Paul. He tilted his chin to his injured arm, ‘you are wounded!’ he insisted, ‘this can go very wrong!’

‘I didn't think this day could get any worse,’ said Lucien. He pulled himself painfully into the saddle and lifted the reins. He looked at Paul and Yusuf – both wearing expressions of worry and stubborn loyalty.

‘Lucien,’ Paul tried one more time, ‘what are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to get my wife,’ he said grimly and kicked his horse to a gallop.

>>

The door crashed open and a man flew, headfirst, into the room – tossed casually as though he were a doll – in this case, a dead doll. He hit the floor with a dull thud – head lolling at a strange unnatural angle, mouth and eyes opened wide in surprise at finding himself dead and thrown around like an unwanted toy.

Lucien Grimaud filled the doorway – a long hooded black cape billowing behind him, the moonlight carving up his sculpted granite face into sinister planes. A dark menacing power rolled before him enveloping the room and its occupants. The three men standing straightened, the two men sitting stood up – all hands moving to hover over their weapons.

They watched – transfixed – as he stepped into the tavern – his dark eyes on them. With one movement he swept the cloak away and dropped it on a chair. He rolled his powerful shoulders, the muscles of his arms swelling with his movement and he clenched the fingers of his strong hands. Tension crested the currents of air and men breathed in its sour smell. The message had said to come unarmed, but he had ignored that.

Sophia stood up too and took a step backward to the wall behind her. His dark eyes found hers and gentled for a moment. She smiled at him.

‘You have done something different with your hair,’ his deep voice was quiet. Her hand went to touch her styled tresses.

‘Do you like it?’ she looked up shyly from under hooded eyes. He smiled back. ‘I do,’ he said softly, ‘you look very beautiful.’ Her blue eyes gleamed at him and for a moment the air pulsed between them.

‘So happy you are happy,’ sneered the man in front of Lucien, ‘let’s get to business Grimaud. ‘Who were you working for tonight?’ His eyes flickered to the two boys standing to the side of the room.

‘There are those who want to know,’ the sneering man informed gravely. In other words, there would be consequences if he did not cooperate. He remained silent not looking at anyone but his wife.

‘Who were you working for tonight?’ the sneering man demanded again. Grimaud sighed heavily.

‘You must not be married,’ he said softly to the sneering man. ‘Women like it when a husband notices these things,’ he smiled again at his wife. ‘It makes them feel appreciated.’

‘Well - maybe she knows who you were working for – eh? yeah,’ the sneering man took a step toward Grimaud, ‘how about if I kill you now and do some ‘appreciatin’ of your wife,’ he leered, baring his yellowed teeth. The man behind him giggled. He had ginger hair and he turned to look at the woman, grinning lewdly at her, exposing gapped and broken teeth. He grabbed at his crotch and smirked at her.

Grimaud glanced to her once more. He looked back at the sneering man.

‘I think not.’

The gentle whoosh was like a whisper and the sneering man never heard it. The knife sank deep into his neck and he was falling and dying before he comprehended what had happened to him. Time stood still – shock paralyzed the ginger man - he stared with his open gaped-tooth mouth at the fallen dead man and swung back to Grimaud – who smashed his fist into his face and sent him flying across the table and into the two men rushing towards him.

Chaos erupted as men yelled and reached for their guns. He caught the dying man to his chest and ducked his head. Musket balls hit the dead body with dull thwacks. Lucien threw the body toward the closest man to him who staggered and went down under the weight.

‘Get down,’ he ordered the two boys, who dropped to their knees and crawled under the table.

The two men had dodged the flying body of the ginger man – and their split-second delay was all he needed. He drew his musket with one hand, his sword with the other – killing one with a musket ball and the second with two parries of the sword driving the blade deep into the man’s gut. The ginger man was rising to his feet, wiping the blood streaming from his broken nose and mouth with the back of his hand, howling in rage, drawing his musket and starting to raise it to a certain kill shot. Grimaud flipped his sword in his hand to spear the man with it when a musket exploded, and the ginger haired head seemed to disappear. Grimaud whirled – the two boys stood next to the table, Joseph clenching a smoking musket in two steady hands. Both young faces were ghostly white, enormous eyes staring at where the headless man had been standing. 

The man who had fallen under the dead man was crawling out from under the body and staggering toward the door when Grimaud caught him by the arm turning him back to him the thrust his blade into his gut. He grunted, fell into Grimaud who hauled him up the stairs and out the door. A small assembly of men were gathered in the dark shadow of the building.

‘Tell the bastard who sent you to come himself,’ he snarled into the man’s face. ‘I will be waiting.’ He spit into the man's face, 'or I will find him,' he said with a menacing quiet voice. He threw the bleeding man onto the street, turned and slammed the door behind him.

Lucien walked to the two boys, still standing where he had left them, and took the musket from the boy’s hands and nodded, ‘thank you,’ he said quietly. He pushed them gently onto a bench. ‘Stay here,’ he said. He turned to his wife.

Sophia was walking toward him, patting her hair back into place from where she had removed a knife. He tilted her chin up to him, ‘are you all right?’ She nodded, and he drew her to him. Her heartbeat was steady against his chest, but she slid her arms up around his neck and held onto him. Her hands moved down to his arms and she felt the dampness of his blood-stained sleeve. 

‘Where did you get this?’ her eyes widening in alarm at the blood. He shrugged and placed his other hand under his elbow to support his injured arm. ‘Earlier,’ he answered vaguely.

‘Who did this?’ she demanded pushing up his sleeve to examine the injury. He smiled at her as she studied the wound. ‘Someone who is probably already dead,’ he said drily.

‘Lucky for them,’ she said frowning and sitting back. He chuckled and glanced toward the boys.

‘Bring me the flasks,’ he tilted his chin to the wine. She was still frowning at him as he tipped one flask and drank deeply.

She studied his arm. ‘I need to attend to this,’ she said looking around the room but finding nothing to help her. She pulled up her skirt and started ripping a strip of her petticoat. ‘We should go to the house or your offices.’‘We need to go home,’ he said, meaning the estate. He too another long drink and held the flask to her. She shook her head at him and pointed to his arm.

‘ _I – need – to – attend – to - this_ ,’ she said slowly and with emphasis in case he was befuddled with violence or wine. He raised an eyebrow at her and shook his head again.

‘The streets are dangerous,’ he pointed at the dead bodies. ‘No one knows who their enemy is – and killing is everywhere. Too many of the people in the street rabble are armed,’ he took another deep drink. ‘It won’t last too long. But we are better to be away from it.’ He looked at her.

She didn’t want to leave. She had their daughter’s name and possibly the orphanage. Dangerous or not, she wanted to keep searching. She looked up to see Lucien watching her. He took her hand.

‘As soon as its calmer, we come back.’ She rolled her lips together and looked at the bodies littering the floor. These men knew Lucien was involved tonight or thought he might be involved with one group or another. His life could continue to be in danger, from either side of the conflict. She sighed.

He looked at his two stable boys who were still sitting obediently and slightly dazed on the bench. He glanced at his wife, ‘why did you bring them?’ he asked curiously. She pursed her lips and busied herself with re-bandaging his arm. His eyes narrowed at her silence. He looked at the boys who were watching him with undisguised astonishment and admiration. They had never seen anyone do what he did in that room.

‘You’ve had some adventures here with Madame,’ he said to them. They visibly brightened, straightening in their seats and nodding enthusiastically. They also had adventures with him!

‘We have been very careful Monsieur,’ they rushed to assure him of their good service, ‘especially in the tunnels, we watched out for Madame’s safety.’

The hand that was lifting the flask to his mouth paused halfway, his eyes shifting first to the two boys and then to her. She rolled her lips together and frowned but kept her eyes fixed on his arm – the bandaging consuming all her attention.

‘The tunnels,’ he said neutrally still looking at her. She gave a small smile but did not look up from her task.

‘It was quite thrilling Monsieur, but we were sure to watch out for her,’ the boys said excitedly, ‘even when she almost fell at the last moment.‘ They were talking over each other to tell him the details of their tunnel escapade – his map, finding the markers, slogging through the muck, stepping over the bottomless holes, the darkness pierced by fragile candles - the tale expanding in embellishments as they spoke.

‘Madame is very brave,’ they declaimed as one.

‘Is she?’ he said softly, grasping her chin and forcing her eyes to his. She smiled gamely at him and he narrowed his eyes severely that said there would be more discussion later. She sighed.

‘All right,’ she said, ‘we go home.’


	19. Aramis

**Author: Mordaunt**

_I am a little world made cunningly  
_ _Of elements, and an angelic sprite_

_(John Donne, From Holy Sonnets no. 5, 1611)_

 

They arrive at the Palais Royal battling rioting crowds. Despite assurances that M. Broussel is not to be touched, there is little appeasement among the people of Paris. Monsieur de Comminges waits for them at the courtyard. “Captain,” he exclaims the moment he sees them. “The Minister will speak to you alone! Your men can wait here...” He gazes at Raoul, a question in his eyes.

“The Vicomte de Bragelonne is the aide-de-camp of General Vallon and comes highly recommended,” D’ Artagnan retorts, anticipating the question. “I thought your message demanded my best men for this mission.”

“De Bragelonne…” Monsier de Comminges is now completely confounded. “Isn’t that the estate of the Comte…”

“Monsieur de Comminges, we have no time for this!” D’ Artagnan interrupts him with impatience. “Your message stated the situation is urgent and I was to arrive with my best men. So here I am! I am certain the Minister will not appreciate any further delay…”

“Follow me, Captain…” says M. de Comminges evidently irritated by having his suspicions dismissed in this manner.

“Wait for me here, Messieurs!” the Captain orders.

The four dismount. They have not spoken to each other except for the few words necessary to navigate through the rioting streets. It is de Rohan who speaks first. “Vicomte,” he says in an affable tone, “I am M. de Rohan, and these are my two comrades, M. de Thierry and M. Marchal…” M. Marchal bows touching the brim of his hat, but M. de Thierry remains aloof, Raoul notices.

“I am honored to be part of this mission with you, Messieurs,” Raoul declares in a tone equally affable.

“How many similar missions have you undertaken in the service of the General, Vicomte?” Despite his poised demeanor, M. de Thierry’s tone is cutting. Raoul knows a slight when he hears one but he also understands that there is truth in the observation. His work for the General has been nothing but official visits, troop inspections, and handling official correspondence.

“De Thierry, the Vicomte has been with the General for some time…” M. de Rohan interjects, but his comrade insists: “If the Vicomte is among the best men for this mission as the Captain just said, then he should have several exploits to relate to us while we wait…” He sounds dispassionate, as if this is no more than an innocent invitation to share stories of war.

“M. de Thierry is correct,” Raoul replies disregarding the obvious provocation. “The Captain chose his men carefully for this mission, and Captain d’ Artagnan does not take such issues lightly…”

“Of course not!” M. Marchal retorts in his deep, sincere voice. “Our Captain is not to be questioned! I would follow him to the ends of the earth. I am honored to fight at your side Vicomte if that is what we must do…” He extends a warm, firm handshake.

“I am honored to fight with you, M. Marchal,” Raoul responds.

M. de Rohan looks quite relieved. “General du Vallon is a great man,” he says. “You are fortunate to be in his service and enjoy his confidence. My comrade M. de Thierry meant no insult…”

“No indeed,” M. de Thierry interjects, “no insult, Vicomte, merely an observation. Since none of us has heard of you, I was simply curious. I have no doubt that you will prove yourself worthy of our Captain’s trust, since you already have the trust of the General…”

“I hope so too, Monsieur,” Raoul replies, aware of the lingering suspicion in the Musketeer’s eyes. Raoul understands his reasoning. This could be a dangerous mission after all and he has no experience in battle, unlike these three men. De Thierry must be his age. Perhaps even younger? But the antipathy he perceives in de Thierry’s tone Raoul cannot comprehend.  He has little time to ponder on the subject. One of M. de Comminge’s men arrives at the courtyard, in great haste.

“Messieurs de Rohan and Marchal, follow me!” he declares. “Messieurs de Thierry and de Bragelonne you are to wait here for further orders!”

 

****

The Minister’s study is empty when M. Comminges lets d’ Artagnan in. It is rare for the Captain to be allowed into these private apartments. The Minister has remained distant all these years, although he has never been aloof or cold towards his old comrade. D’ Artagnan understands the Minister’s need to appear impartial and assert his authority over a world of entitled courtiers, princes of the blood, and aristocrats from ancient families that see him as an interloper, an upstart soldier whose power derives from a Queen Regent whose bed he shares. Paris has been ruthless to the Captain’s old friend. Pamphlets against the Minister and his government circulate widely, printed at secret presses. They are replete with stories, commentaries, and satirical verses, written anonymously by people like M. Scarron and his circle of friends.“ _La prospérité malheureuse ou l'abréviation parfaite de l'histoire du ministre_ ”, “Unhappy prosperity or the perfect abbreviation of the Minister’s history,” was the title of the latest pamphlet that Constance brought back a few days before the riots began (1.) It condemned the Minister’s immense fortune and wealth. Perhaps rightly so, d’ Artagnan thought. But it was also laced with every kind of falsehood about the life of a man d’ Artagnan knows well. A life of honor, courage, and sacrifice. It is that honorable life that the Captain is determined to defend. 

The study is paneled with dark wood and decorated with paintings of Italian, Dutch, and French masters from the Minister’s personal collection. A large fireplace, its dark green and white marble jambs supporting a lime-wood frieze with carved fleurs de lys, takes one side of the room. The opposite side is covered by wooden shelves stacked with leather-bound volumes all the way to the ceiling, which is painted with a fresco depicting the birth of Minerva. Everything in this room denotes refinement, comfort, and immense wealth: from the colorful oriental rugs, to the decorated cabinets, the exquisite furnishings, and the silk and velvet curtains covering large windows that overlook the gardens of the Palais Royal. D’ Artagnan considers the stark contrast between this study and Cardinal Richelieu’s sparse, austere apartments. Such a different sort of power they exuded! Here he sees his old friend’s elegance and grace reflected in every detail, alongside the caring eye of the powerful woman who adores him.

The Captain does not have to wait long. A side panel opens revealing a secret door. The man who steps through it wears a Musketeer uniform. For a moment, the Captain is surprised. He did not expect to find one of his men in the Minister’s study. The Musketeer walks into the candlelit room.

“I am glad to see you well, old friend,” he says, a smile animating his dark brown eyes. In his immaculate Musketeer uniform, Aramis looks as if not a day has passed since they last served together under Captain de Treville. Not a single wrinkle on his pale brow, not the slightest hue of gray in his raven black hair. His handsome features have gained in majesty what they have lost in youthful feverish agitation. His face is more elongated, and his fine eyes are now liquid, clear.

“Life has treated you well,” d’ Artagnan would have liked to say. “I am well, thank you, Monseigneur,” he says instead, bowing respectfully.

“I was looking forward to a less formal reunion,” Aramis observes. He sounds disappointed.

D’ Artagnan remains silent. His gaze however is more eloquent than his tongue. “What has brought about this sudden change?” it inquires. “Why the Musketeer uniform? Is this a moment of nostalgia brought about by the rioting city outside these gates, or worse, the conjugal crisis within, the one M. Marchal described?”

The Minister is a perceptive man. “You probably think this outfit odd, Captain.” He has returned to his regular demeanor now: less amiable, more formal.  

“The Musketeer uniform still suits you well, Monseigneur,” d’ Artagnan replies carefully.

“Well, it must. I plan to leave Paris dressed as one…”

“Leave? To where… Monseigneur?”  

“Rouen. Paris can no longer be ruled. Despite Her Majesty’s best intentions, it is still in the hands of street mobs controlled by M. Coadjutor and his allies. It is no longer safe, Captain.” (2) 

D’ Artagnan is aghast. The implications of such a flight are immense. “And their Majesties?” he ventures hoping his voice does not betray his feelings.

“Their Majesties also…”

"They are delivering this city to the hands of the rioting crowd," d’Artagnan thinks. "They are abandoning it to complete chaos." He is both appalled and alarmed. He suddenly realizes Constance and Alexandre are alone in the Garrison. About ten of his men are still there, along with twenty recruits. Would thirty people be enough to protect his wife and infant son from a mob of hundreds of angry people?

“It is of course safest if we don’t all leave Paris at the same time,” the Minister continues evidently unaware of the impact the news has on his old friend. He fastens a set of fine pistols around his belt. “It is agreed that I leave first as soon as it gets dark. Her Majesty, the Dauphin, and his brother must follow later, after midnight.” 

“And her Majesty agrees…?” It is the wrong question to ask a Minister this powerful, d’ Artagnan realizes, but he is still incredulous.

“Of course, Captain!” Aramis sounds irritated. “It was Her Majesty’s idea.”

“It is an ill-advised one…” d’ Artagnan thinks. He bows: “Monseigneur, what you propose is extremely dangerous, thus I must understand every detail…” 

“Of course, Captain.” Aramis seems appeased by the explanation. “In fact, Her Majesty wants to speak to you alone about her plan, for this very reason. She expects you in her oratory, following this meeting.”

“I shall go to her immediately then, Monseigneur,” d’ Artagnan declares.

“Monsieur le Prince (3) has offered me one his carriages.” Aramis continues as he puts on a pair of exquisite gray leather gloves, the likes of which no Musketeer has ever owned.  “We will exit the city from the gate at St. Honorè, where we are told the militia is less ordered. Our pretext is that we are taking the Prince’s carriage to the front for he has been injured and needs it so he can return to Paris. Her Majesty will follow the same route, only at midnight. We have been assured it is the safest way out of Paris.”

“Monseigneur, it is possible that you may be recognized…” d’ Artagnan ventures. Is he proposing to ride looking like _this_ among regular Musketeers?

“How about this then: I shall remain in the Prince’s carriage. It has a double floor where it is possible to hide should anyone decides to search, albeit we are told, such scrutiny and foresight are unlikely at St. Honorè. I am armed. I am a much better shooter than I used to be, Captain. Plenty of time to practice!” Aramis’ voice is playful now despite the seriousness of the situation. Behind the eyes of this impervious, powerful Minister, a daring, reckless youth, who once survived being tossed out of a window, looks gleefully back at d’ Artagnan.

“For this mission I need only very few men, Captain,” he continues. “A full Musketeer escort for an empty carriage would look suspicious even at St. Honorè. Needless to say that an empty carriage should not be protected by the Captain of the Musketeers in person…”

“So he does not need me…” D’ Artagnan wonders if all this is some sort of subtle slight after all.

Aramis continues as if he has not noticed his friend’s obvious dissatisfaction. “Besides Captain, your primary duty is to the Dauphin and to Her Majesty. Truth be told, I would feel less troubled about this plan if I knew they are protected by you personally.”

D’ Artagnan bows with a smile accepting the compliment. “I would have advised the same thing, Monseigneur,” he says. “I will send orders to two of my men to escort you.” He suddenly remembers Raoul’s ingenious proposal. His choice of men is now clear.

“Send word to M. de Thierry and M. de Bragelonne to wait at the courtyard for further orders,” he tells M. de Comminges on his way from the Minister’s rooms to the Queen’s apartments. “And ask M. de Rohan and M. Marchal to meet me immediately outside Her Majesty’s oratory.”

 

*****

Minister d’ Herblay hurries to the courtyard, where the Prince’s carriage and his escort wait. It is already dark. A cool breeze from the river carries with it the smell of impending rain. He lowers his feathered hat as he motions towards the two young men who are already mounted on their horses. One of them is a Musketeer. He looks very young, almost a child. “I suspect we too looked like children to men like Captain de Treville,” he tells himself as he approaches. 

The other young man wears the uniform of the Prince’s officers. One of Porthos’ men no doubt, Aramis thinks. The young officer removes his hat to greet the Minister and Aramis stops in complete astonishment. Greeting him respectfully, mounted on a magnificent black horse, is his old friend Athos! Or rather, the spitting image of the youth, who many lifetimes ago had challenged Porthos to a duel and won (4). His composure fails him momentarily. “ _Sang Dieu_!” he exclaims, realizing immediately how inappropriate such a thing is for a Prime Minister to say.

He regains his aloofness immediately, and adds: “Messieurs, I expect you are already informed of the details of your mission. Since the three of us may have to fight together to break through the gates of Paris, I would like to know your names. You have your Captain’s recommendation after all!”

M. de Thierry introduces himself first. Aramis gazes at the youth first with great curiosity, and then as if he is trying to recall something: “Of course! De Thierry. The one called the best sharpshooter in France. Well Monsieur, you may have an opportunity to prove yourself to me this evening!” M. de Thierry bows satisfied. Raoul has never seen him smile before.

“I am the Vicomte de Bragelonne, Monseigneur,” Raoul interjects bowing with respect. 

“Of course you are! De Bragelonne!” The Minister’s tone is difficult to discern. Surprise, Raoul thinks, and something else: delight? The Minister walks up to Raoul’s horse and in a voice both playful and conspiratorial he whispers: “Does your father know you are doing this, Monsieur?”

Raoul never imagined that his first words to the most powerful man in France and his father’s once best friend would be a dissimulation. But it must be so. He has thought through his plan now and considered all contingencies carefully. He smiles a seemingly genuine, honest smile, as he retorts innocently: “Yes, Monseigneur. He does indeed!”

The Minister looks incredulous. “Really? Well… no matter, Monsieur… Let us see if you can carry out this mission then!” he exclaims as he jumps into the carriage with the vigor and agility of a man in his twenties. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) “La prospérité malheureuse ou l'abréviation parfaite de l'histoire du minister” is the actual title of a Mazarinade. These were publications against Cardinal Mazarin.  
> (2) The story here follows some of the general plot lines in Dumas' "Twenty Years After." However all the details are different.  
> (3) Monsieur le Prince: Louis de Bourbon (1621-1686) Duc d’ Enghien, became Prince de Condè upon the death of his father in 1646. Known as “Monsieur le Prince” he fought valiantly at the battles of Rocroy (1643,) Nordlingen (1644,) and Lens (August 1648.) In the autumn of 1648, he threw his military skills behind the royal cause (i.e., against the Fronde.) However, believing that he was insufficiently rewarded for his services he reacted with such arrogance that he alienated both Mazarin and the Queen. He was jailed in the Vincennes in 1650. By 1651 the political situation had changed and Mazarin was forced to release him. He immediately raised an army to rescue the young King from his advisers. He failed, refused to accept the peace of 1653 and fled to Spain where he took part in campaigns against France. He was reinstated in 1659, and retired to his estate in Chantilly. He was recalled to service in 1668 and fought his last battle in 1674.  
> (4) See "Past Forgotten, Past Remembered" (posted on AO3)


	20. The Broken Roads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paris in upheaval and an unexpected request results in old adversaries coming together....

This much I know is true  
That God blessed the broken road  
That led me straight to you (Jeff Hanna / Marcus Hummon / Robert E. Boyd)

The message had arrived as they were leaving the city – or trying to leave. The carriage was stopped at St Honore and Sophia was fully engaged in upbraiding the guard who might have been willing to open the gate but for the angry woman in front of him from whom he could not escape. 

Paul de Vry dismounted and walked to the carriage window. ‘What is she doing?’ he asked Lucien who was dozing in the carriage, waiting for his wife to finish her flowery and inflamed denunciation. He was half-listening to her – in case he was needed – to rescue the guard it would seem – and not his wife. He chuckled in amusement.

He opened one eye and looked at Paul. ‘They seem to have some history,’ he remarked. Paul grinned, ‘perhaps this guard is why she went through the tunnels,’ he suggested. Lucien snorted.

‘Then he deserves her severest harangue,’ he said wryly, ‘the pain of it would save me the trouble of shooting him.’

‘Does she know she is arguing with a fish-monger?’ 

Lucien’s eyes snapped open and he leaned forward to peer out the carriage window. The city guard had been replaced at some places by a motley assortment of the common folk. He raised his eyebrows at this guard – curiously arrayed in a large apron extending from his rotund belly to his knees, over which stretched a blue coat with red epaulets adorning the shoulders. He clutched a broad brimmed hat with a large feather plume waving back and forth across his face with the breeze. Unaccustomed to his authority and this particular angry aristocratic woman - he was opening and closing his mouth in a futile attempt to drop a word into the stream of invectives. Rather like a fish.

He looked in disbelief at Paul and the two men sniffed the air and then burst out laughing. They watched her continue to scold the fishmonger-guard, who had wisely decided to abandon any self- defense or refuse her commands and was standing with hands folded on top of his belly and staring at the ground unhappily. He was resigned to wait for Madame’s diatribe to run out of steam. Besides that – she scared him.

‘Yes Madame,’ he finally cried still not daring to actually look at her and then a second carriage was drawing up next to them, the Musketeer guard demanding the fishmonger-guard’s attention.

Abruptly, Sophia flicked her fingers dismissively in his face and turned on her heel to stalk back to the carriage. At the sudden silence, the fishmonger-guard looked up and shuffled off to push open the gate, jamming the great plumed hat back on his head, stalks of hair sticking out and mumbling irritably. He glanced nervously at the grand imposing carriage with ducal crest and its unseen occupant.

Paul held the carriage door for her, a smile on his face. ‘What amuses you sir?’ she asked him tartly. He inclined his head courteously, ‘I see nothing funny Madame. Only a properly disciplined fishmonger,’ he affected a serious tone. She glared at him and accepted his hand to help her into the carriage.

Lucien smiled and watched his wife settle with self-satisfied air onto the seat, her cheeks flushed. She frowned at his smile. ‘Do I have some comical imperfection on my face?’ she asked him with a sharp tone, glowering at him. ‘Men seem to be amused at my countenance today.’

His smile widened, he leaned forward to grasp her chin and pull her toward him and kissed her nose. ‘You are absolute perfection,’ he declared to his scowling wife. She tsked her tongue at him, pushing him dismissively back against the seat.

Still grinning, he rapped his knuckles on the side of the carriage. He started to close his eyes again when the drumming sound of a horse moving quickly brought both men to alert. Paul straightened and turned to watch the approaching rider. Lucien heard the man shout, reached for his pistol and was out the carriage door. He held out a warning hand to his wife to stay put.

The rider dismounted quickly, ‘Monsieur Grimaud! A message from the Comte de la Fere,’ he thrust a sealed letter toward Lucien. He broke the seal and scanned it quickly. He turned to Sophia who was watching him through the open door. He handed her the message. She read it and stepped from the carriage. Lucien turned to the messenger.

‘Return to the Comte and inform him you found me at St Honore and that I am on my way.’

‘You must go now,’ she said, reaching for her cloak and turning to the coachman to give instructions to unload the trunks. ‘Take Joseph, you may need him for the horses or messages.’

‘I should go with you,’ she said, reading the note again, ‘but the children…’ she looked up at Lucien.

‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘You must return immediately.’ A message from Henri at the estate had arrived in the night. The younger children were ill with fever. She nodded. Paul was untying Lucien’s horse from the back of the carriage. She and Paul would ride together to the estate.

‘Let me give you some instructions of what might help her,’ she said and reached for a bag set down by the coachman.

>>>

Lucien threaded the team of four carefully through the traffic, pulling lightly on the reins to slow for a group of women carrying market baskets. They were scurrying away from a roving gang of rebels, armed with pistols, pikes, swords or field hoes, roaming openly along the streets, setting up barricades and challenging those passing by. A few turned to look at him as he drove the carriage through the streets, but none had tried to stop him. He didn’t know if anyone recognized him but it didn’t matter. He knew what to do if there was any attempt to interfere with him.

Smoke hung in the air from the many fires burning and the commotion of fighting between guards and mobs carried above the rooftops and drifted down to the streets below. He waited for an opening to cut around a slow-moving dray in front of him and kept a close eye on the moving hordes. He was calculating the distance to Bragelonne, the number of times they would need to change horses, where the best inns were located along the road. He slowed to turn into the groomed lane leading into the courtyard of the inn. A boy ran out from the stable across the yard to take the horses. Joseph and Lucien jumped down from the box.

‘Stay here,’ Lucien said to Joseph, ‘get food from the kitchen. We have a long drive.’ He went to look for Athos.

He walked into the inn, pausing to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. A fire burned steadily in the fireplace to the right, a rectangular table set in front of stacked casks of ale or wine against the far wall. The floor was well swept, tables cleaned and set in an orderly fashion throughout the large room and the room aired – no stale smell of rancid wine and tobacco. A staircase to the left led to the open balcony of the second floor, doors to rooms leading from it. The innkeeper, wearing a starched apron came forward to greet him.

‘Please tell the Comte de la Fere that M Grimaud waits for him,’ said Lucien. He was watching a woman descend the stairs, carefully managing a large laundry basket filled with linens. As she reached the bottom of the stairs she looked up and met his gaze, he nodded at her in recognition and she immediately dropped her eyes and scurried to the door at the back of room. It would lead to the kitchens and outdoor laundry. His eyes followed her as she left. He had seen the scar, old but still prominent, that traveled from her jaw up to cover her left cheek to the bridge of her nose. She was lucky she had not lost an eye when the broken bottle had slashed across her face he thought – but he doubted she considered herself lucky at all. Saracen had been disgusted with her damaged face and thrown her out like garbage.

‘Sir,’ the innkeeper had returned. ‘The Comte asks that you come to his rooms. It is that one,’ he pointed up to the open balcony to the door and stood aside to let Lucien pass him.

He ran up the stairs and stopped at the door pausing for a moment to listen. He could hear the low murmur of voices. He knocked lightly.

>>

Lucien dropped into a chair and signaled the serving girl. He threw off his cloak and drummed his fingers on the table, irritated at the exchange with Athos. The man was insufferable, arrogant and pig-headed...he ground his teeth in frustration. Sophia’s voice sounded in his mind – _‘you are there to help Anne – not to resume old quarrels with Athos.’_ He took a deep breath and bore down on his anger. He would sit up front and drive the damn carriage. The rest was up to Athos – but if his judgement put her at risk…

The serving girl delivered wine and a bowl of stew to his table and as he picked up the fork, he suddenly realized the laundry woman was standing in the kitchen doorway, the door partially closed, looking directly at him. Her eyes widened, she looked furtively around and stepped through the doorway, hastening to his table. She leaned toward him, whispering ‘Sir, M Comminges and his men and Red Guard have arrived in the yard. They have been scouring the neighborhoods for rebels and others who might have helped the Duc escape.’

She looked up as the door opened and sucked in her breath fearfully as the door way filled with red capes. She scurried through the kitchen door just as Joseph started to step through it. He shook his head at Joseph and the boy disappeared back the way he had come. Lucien placed a forkful of stew into his mouth and chewed slowly, watching the men enter the room. They stepped toward the tables where men were sitting, peering into faces and pulling men to their feet roughly.

Lieutenant Comminges stood motionless, letting his eyes do the work as they moved around the room carefully. He had a wide stern face, thick brows hovering over his dark eyes, a large mouth narrowed cruelly. His calculating roving gaze finally came to rest on Lucien. His eyes gleamed with his discovery and he cocked an eyebrow with interest. He sauntered to where Lucien sat and lowered himself into an opposite chair.

‘M Grimaud,’ he cried with a contrived jovial air – as though unexpectedly finding an old friend. He was removing his gloves, tugging each finger one hand at a time. He dropped his gloves on the table and leaned back in the chair crossing his arms across his chest.

‘Interesting to see you here,’ he remarked. Behind Comminges, Lucien could see Athos beginning to descend the stairs. Seeing the guard and who was sitting at Lucien’s table, Athos hesitated, locking eyes with Lucien, who gave an imperceptible shake of his head and swiped his hand in front of his face – as though he was batting away a fly.

‘Is it?’ replied Lucien skeptically – feigning his own response - pursing his lips and frowning. He took a deep drink of the wine and looked at the lieutenant over the rim of the glass, his eyes glinting with amusement. He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. ‘The stew is good,’ he advised. ‘Are you here for a meal?’ He glanced at the guards still roaming the room.

‘I’m not sure the cook has prepared enough for all these burly men you travel with M Comminges,’ he smiled at his own joke. The lieutenant smiled also – which appeared more like baring his teeth and unconnected to any amusement. All contrivance vanished.

‘What are you doing here?’ Comminges asked tersely as Lucien took another mouthful of his meal. He chewed slowly, pouring wine from the flask into his glass and drinking slowly. Comminges narrowed his eyes at Grimaud’s measured movements. Lucien sat back in his chair, wiped his mouth looking steadily back at Comminges and waved his hand absently in front of him.

‘As you see,’ he said in a pleasant tone, running his tongue over his teeth.

‘Where were you last night?’

‘When precisely? The night does last…’

‘Dusk to dawn.’

‘All of that? Well...let's see....eating dinner, sleeping, entertaining my wife, …not necessarily in that order,’ Lucien grinned like a co-conspirator at him. ‘You will understand how that can go with a woman…’

‘There was a prisoner escape from Vincennes – you were close to that area.’

‘At one point, yes,’ replied Lucien easily. Comminges studied him, ‘see anything?’ Lucien looked up and raised his eyebrows and laughed.

‘Such as an escaped prisoner flagging me down for a ride down the river?’ Comminges had the grace to laugh too.

‘As it was, a new member of the crew seemed to have a problem as he ran from the guards at the customs house. I was injured,’ Lucien rubbed his arm, and affected a pout. ‘It hurt. My wife was most annoyed with me.’

‘Was that your man?’ he asked. Comminges shook his head, ‘no – not the man we were seeking.’

‘Ah – well…’

‘You were moving a grain shipment?’ suggested Comminges.

‘Are you following me Comminges?’ he wagged his finger at the lieutenant. ‘I’m not sure the men I serve would like that.’

Comminges curled his lip in anger. He was not privy to the secrets surrounding this dark and dangerous man, but he knew Grimaud was important to certain people in the palace and ministries. He glanced at his men who were now grouped together a few feet away from him, watching this increasing tense exchange. He wondered if they could kill this man – his fighting skills were legendary, but there were four of them and surely that would be enough. He gave a regretful snort – he would never know the outcome as he would be the first to die. Grimaud would make sure of it.

He looked back at Grimaud who was watching him as though he knew his thoughts. Was it his imagination or did Grimaud lean forward, roll his massive shoulders and flex his strong hands, his dark eyes amused and sparking with demonic fire, encouraging him in his calculations – go ahead the man seemed to goad him – let us see how this will turn out. Time ticked over. The lieutenant was the first to drop his eyes.

The moment passed, and Lucien leaned back lifting his glass in a vague salute and draining it. ‘Well – that was fun. Always a pleasure to help the Queen’s guard,’ he said. Comminges knew he was being dismissed and his hands curled into fists. Grimaud’s mouth curved into a smile that did not reach his eyes.

He watched the lieutenant and the guard drift toward the door, flicking cards from men’s hands and overturning tankards of ale or wine as they walked, scooping up a few gambling coins. The door closed behind him and Lucien was on his feet and up the stairs. Athos was in the hallway, his face drawn with worry.

‘Now,’ said Lucien and Athos nodded.

>>

The wheels of the carriage rattled along the country road, the swaying carriage creaking and groaning. He handled the team of four deftly. The carriage was moving steadily in the dark night. Clouds drifted in the night sky, filtering the moonlight into random shadows. Trees and hedgerows lined the road, dark fields stretching away into the distance. Occasionally he heard a stream passing close to the road.

One of the outriders pulled forward to pace alongside the driver and carriage window, awaiting any sign from him or the occupants of the carriage – and then fall back to follow. He had sent Joseph with a message for several of his men to accompany them. Comminges was not a threat he intended to ignore. They had been traveling for several hours and no thumps from the carriage. Athos had carried her from the inn. Perhaps she had fallen asleep.

He thought about the brief tense exchange with Athos earlier. Little had changed over the span of time and distance between them. When the door to the room had opened he had stood, for the first time in many years, face to face with Athos - not much more than an arm’s length away – less than would be necessary to kill him with his sword. It was not the face he expected. Time had done its work - silver tinging his dark hair, more lines around his eyes, his jaw slightly softened. But when his mouth tightened, and his eyes narrowed – Lucien saw the man he knew - and remembered – and fought. He also saw something else – this man was worried, and fear flickered in his eyes.

The dark night invited remembrances of memories tucked away from the light of day. In the first days of their reunion, after so many years apart, he had believed that he and Sophia had time – all the time in the world to discover each other anew. He knew there was disapproval, but he had not foreseen the determination of Treville and the Musketeers to keep them apart. They had wanted to kill him, events spiraled out of control and his rage had been destructive.

Now, they had needed him. He was a man who walked a fine line between a brutal criminal world and nobility. They wanted his boats, his men, his cunning. He could do what they required and then was easily dismissed – until the next time. Tonight, Athos had asked for his help and here he was – driving his carriage across the country, using his men to guard the occupants. The highway men who roamed these roads would let his carriage pass by their ambush - unharmed. He had answered Athos’ call. Anne had needed him, and he would always help Anne. But he would complete this task and return to his home with nothing changed between him and the man for which he performed this service.

A hollow feeling resonated within him – an unmooring to his life – the darkest thoughts unfolded and drifted easily along this empty sea. _I am here she whispered, cool fingers tracing the line of his jaw and across his lips – I will always be here she breathed into him - think of me._

He pushed his thoughts to his children, his wife. He would return to their home – the place they had rebuilt their lives. He would drive into the yard in the dark of night. Henri would emerge to take the horses, urging him to go to the house. He would enter through the door to the kitchen and workrooms, greet the footmen on duty and scratch the ears to the low rumble of the eager mastiffs. He would stride up the stairs and check on each child before going to their bedchamber. It was likely that his son was sleeping in his mother’s arms – they would have fallen asleep as she read to him. He would carry his boy to his bed, tucking covers around him. He would slip into their bed and slide his arms around her warm body– breathing in her scent, her dark hair silky under his cheek – holding to him the only woman he would ever love. There were many wrongs – starting and extending from the time and circumstances of his birth, to things he had thought or believed or done and he carried the weight of it all. But the woman he held in his arms balanced all the reckonings on his life with one unalterable truth – she loved him.  


The dark night loosened its cold grip on his heart. He looked at the boy, bundled in a blanket, sleeping against his shoulder. Joseph had been good today. He worked well with the horses and he might apprentice him to the blacksmith. But he had seen the boy’s eyes light up at the activity at the riverfront. There were other opportunities if he were willing. He understood that orphans like to stay close to where they find a sense of home – of belonging. For the present, the boy would remain at the estate.

He looked up at the moon and estimated another hour until the next inn and change of horses. There would be time for a glass of ale with his men and a bite of food. He lifted the reins and drove on.


	21. Flight to Rouen

**Author: Mordaunt**

 

 _True, a new mistress now I chase,_  
_The first foe in the field;_  
_And with a stronger faith embrace.  
_ _A sword, a horse, a shield._

_(Richard Lovelace, 1649 To Lucasta, Going to the Wars)_

 

The guard at the St. Honorè gate is a disorderly company of fishmongers, street vendors, street urchins, and the occasional innkeeper and baker who have been recruited, handed muskets and pistols, named lieutenants overnight, and promised a promotion to General by morning. A line of carriages, riders, and people on foot wait for permission to leave the city. Patience is running short and a thunderstorm is approaching.

“We cannot wait here like this!” Raoul whispers to de Thierry from his horse.

The Musketeer nods. “Leave that to me.” He searches around with his gaze, and calls:

“Hey, Friquet!” (1)

“Hey there, Monsieur Musketeer!” exclaims a boy standing idly among the rest of the citizen militia. He looks eleven or twelve but he may be younger. Dirty. Freckled. Scrawny. All knees and elbows. His curly red matted hair is almost hidden under a feathered hat of the Fronde that is far too large for him. Still he wears it with pride, which shines in his intelligent clear blue eyes. He drags a musket twice his size.

“I see you are promoted!” de Thierry says with a smile. Raoul realizes that this is the second time he has ever seen de Thierry smile.

“Yes, Monsieur!” the boy replies with great enthusiasm. “I will make lieutenant faster than you!”

“There may be a way to help you with that!” de Thierry says pointing towards the carriage they escort with his head. “Do you know whose carriage that is?”

“Of course! What do you take me for, Monsieur?”

“Well… _that_ … must get to the front. It is urgent…”

“It is true then what they say in the street? That Monsieur le Prince has been injured?” the boy asks and Raoul admires the ingenious planning on the part of the Minister. That is what it means to be the most powerful man in France, he realizes. You can have the streets of Paris that are rioting against you, actually dancing to the tune that you have composed.

“I do not waste my time with such nonsense,” de Thierry scoffs, feigning secrecy, which only confirms the fake rumor. “We need to get this carriage through the gate immediately. We must be at the front as fast as possible. Monsieur le Prince will be grateful to all those who will make this happen… Imagine when I tell him about your great service!”

“You wouldn’t… You just say that…” the boy retorts in disbelief.

“Have I ever lied to you, Friquet?” de Thierry interjects. “You’ve known me all your life…”

The boy smiles a wide genuine smile, all teeth. There is trust in that smile and faith in this Musketeer, whom Raoul finds so difficult to understand and even harder to like.

“You think I can make lieutenant then?” the boy insists, grinning proudly.

“If you help, I will make sure of that!”

 

Friquet walks up to de Thierry’s horse and confides in a conspiratorial tone: “The lieutenant at the gate is old Pascal, the fishmonger who keeps the stall behind the Filles-Dieu (2). Great at gutting fish and all, but he is entirely over his head here. He’s been having an argument for a while with some great lady, whose carriage is halted. He hates being embarrassed like this by a woman in front of his men. He may return to gutting fish, instead of turning into a General by tomorrow…”

“Old Fish-stink Pascal?” de Thierry sounds amused. “This explains a great deal. You would make a better lieutenant for certain, Friquet!”

“I will make sure you get this carriage through the gate, Monsieur!” Friquet says. “Let’s hope the old fool keeps fighting with that lady.”

 

Friquet walks up to the carriage, greets the coachman, climbs on top of the front wheel like a cat, and peaks in through the window. As long as this brilliant boy does not enter the carriage, and starts knocking around the double floor, all is fine, Raoul assures himself. Otherwise they are trapped, for there is no place from which to escape: the gate is closed before them and behind them they face the hostile streets of Paris. The Palais Royal suddenly feels too far. Friquet jumps on top of the carriage and sits next to the coachman. He is an old soldier devoted to the Queen.

“Hi friend!” the boy says. “I will guide you around, so do as I say!”

Friquet leads the carriage to a side street that turns right in front of the gate. But for a couple militia men who stagger drunkenly pretending to be keeping guard, the street is empty.

“Hail Friquet, General of the Streets!” one of them cries as the carriage passes by.

“Hail to you, King of Paris!” Friquet exclaims. He turns to de Thierry with a grin and a wink as if to signal that this is their man. “Hey Benoit!” the boy continues addressing the man he called King of Paris: “This carriage must exit the city right now….”

The man guffaws: “With Fish-stink at the gate? No one is making it out of Paris tonight! But... for you General of the Streets, I will make it happen!” he adds.

 

The King of Paris walks ahead of the carriage now, leading it right before the gate, where a corporeal middle-aged man is waving his hands wildly while a lady cloaked in the finest velvet is arguing for the release of her carriage.

Friquet jumps from the top of the Prince’s carriage and walks up to de Thierry and Raoul. “The King of Paris is on it now. Consider it done,” he says a clever grin in his bright blue eyes. He disappears around the street corner dragging his musket behind him.

“Are you sure about this?” Raoul whispers to de Thierry.

“It is our best chance,” de Thierry whispers back. “I trust Friquet. His grandmother, Dame Nanette, is M. Broussel’s cook. I have known her all my life.” (3)

“I hope you are right,” Raoul replies unconvinced. “There is no place for a battle here. We will endanger all these innocent people. And no place to retreat…”

The King of Paris signals to the middle-aged lieutenant in the distance. “Hey Pascal! This one is mine…” he says showing the Prince’s carriage. M. Pascal waves his hand absent-mindedly continuing his argument with the cloaked lady, and the Prince’s coach escorted by de Thierry and Raoul passes under the gate without anyone noticing. Almost…

 

…The cloaked lady notices! She glares at the two young men in astonishment and exasperation. It is only as they pass by her coach that de Thierry recognizes the coat of arms on her carriage door. The de la Croix family is ancient aristocracy. It must be indeed unimaginable for such a lady to be treated thus, de Thierry reckons. Still he finds it rather surprising that a lady of that rank would condescend even to speak to a man like Fish-stink Pascal. “No matter,” de Thierry thinks, “it is thanks to her that we have made it through!” He bows politely to the lady, touching the brim of his hat as they pass her by. Raoul does the same.

 

“We are through, Monseigneur!” Raoul whispers to Aramis through the carriage window the moment they are outside the city walls. He sees now the shape of the Minister inside.

“We made it!” Raoul thinks.

He is wrong.

 

A small troop of Frondeur cavaliers arrives at the gate soon after. M. Pascal who is still arguing with the lady is taken entirely by surprise. M. Louviéres, the son of M. Broussel (4) heads the company. They are armed, determined, and in every way the exact opposite of the undisciplined militia guarding the gate of St. Honoré. M. Louviéres jumps from his horse. “Lieutenant!” he yells. “A carriage with the coat of arms of M. le Prince! Did it come by this gate?”

M. Pascal looks baffled. “What carriage?” he stammers.

“Yes, Monsieur,” the cloaked lady interjects. She is enraged. “Yes! Monsieur le Prince’s coach left not more than half an hour ago, and I am still here arguing with this fool! Do you know who I am, Monsieur? This treatment is preposterous!”

The younger M. Broussel has already noticed the coat of arms on the lady’s carriage. “Madame…” he ventures, intimidated. “It is simply a misunderstanding.” And turning to M. Pascal who has yet to comprehend what is happening, he commands with the authority of a superior officer: “Let her Grace leave immediately. She has already offered us a great service! Thank you, Madame,” he continues. “Your information about M. le Prince’s coach is invaluable.”

He grabs the reins of his horse and jumps back on the saddle. “The rumor is true. They have escaped to Rouen! This is now a coup!” he exclaims to his men. “We must protect the King! I return to make sure we act immediately! The rest of you stop that carriage!” he orders as he spurs his horse towards the Palais Royal.

 

****

 

The coach carrying the Minister travels towards Rouen in a fierce thunderstorm. They keep their pace to a trot trying to maintain their horses as fresh as possible, in case there is need for a swift escape. Raoul and de Thierry ride on either side silently.

It is Raoul who notices first. Somewhere between the thunder and the heavy rain: the sound of horses galloping, and moving shadows of horsemen not far behind.

“We are being pursued!” he cries.

They increase their pace to a gallop, as the first shot is fired by one of their dark pursuers. It whizzes past Raoul’s hat.

“They are close, Monseigneur!” de Thierry warns Aramis.

The Minister opens the carriage window.

“Monseigneur!” de Thierry exclaims “What are you doing?”

“My share of fighting, M. de Thierry,” Aramis says with a mischievous grin. “I have been looking forward to this!” He balances his body on the window like an acrobat, and aims with his pistol. The fuse momentarily lights up in the heavy rain and the complete darkness of the starless night. Somewhere not too far, a body falls on the graveled road. “Got him!” the Minster exclaims. “Your turn!” he invites de Thierry.

De Thierry is about to accept the Minister’s invitation when, a hostile bullet pierces the coachman through the back. The man gasps, and falls dead on his seat. The Minister’s coach is suddenly out of control. Spooked by the bullets, the rain, and the thunderstorm, and without anyone to hold the reins, the horses bolt down the road at a frantic pace. The Minister tries to climb to the box and grab the reigns but a sudden jolt throws him back inside the coach. De Thierry realizes in panic that he may be injured, or worse, killed. 

“We need to stop this carriage,” he shouts to Raoul as hostlile bullets fly around them.

“You stop the carriage,” Raoul shouts back. “I will stop them!”

“That is insane!” de Thierry cries.

“Just stop the damn carriage!” Raoul retorts and turns his horse back towards their pursuers.

De Thierry has little time to argue. He matches his galloping horse to the pace of the carriage, balances carefully on his saddle, takes a deep breath, and jumps onto the side of the speeding coach, seizing one of the fleur-de-lys-shaped steel rods that hold the hood in place. It is too small, too wet, and too slippery to hold onto while the carriage continues its frantic blind ride. “I am a shooting target,” he thinks as he desperately fumbles to find another way to climb onto the hood. “Another bump on the road and I am done for,” he tells himself. Miraculously it is that next jolt combined with the speed of the coach that flings him up far enough to grab the iron rod at the back of the coachman’s box. His climb becomes easier after that. He drags himself carefully along the dripping hood, and finally manages to take the coachman’s seat, pushing the dead body out of the way. He pulls the reigns. Besides some bruises and a scratch on his right arm from a passing bullet, he is surprisingly unharmed.

“Monseigneur!” he calls. “Can you hear me? Are you injured?”

“I used to be a Musketeer before you were even born, young man!” Aramis sounds irate from inside the coach. “What do you take me for?”

Despite himself, despite the danger of the situation, de Thierry cannot suppress a smile. “I apologize, Monseigneur!” he says as he finally brings the horses to a slower trot.

The Minister peaks from the window. “Where is de Bragelonne?” He sounds worried.

“He stayed behind, Monseigneur, to give us time to escape,” de Thierry responds, suddenly realizing the great danger in which his companion now finds himself. There were at least three men left on that road. He wonders if he can turn the carriage back, but the fatuity of the idea strikes him immediately: his primary duty is to the Minister.

“He will manage, Monseigneur,” he says, knowing the Minister understands this is a lie, and he presses the horses towards Rouen.

 

****

Raoul stands with his horse in the middle of the road, under the pouring rain. Behind him the Minister’s coach continues its frantic ride. Before him he sees nothing but darkness, his enemies cloaked in its folds, the sound of their horses masked by thunder. He has only two dry loaded pistols left. He will have no time to reload. Two bullets. “I must use them carefully,” he tells himself.

“Lighting is my enemy,” he thought at first, but then he realized it could also be an ally. It just depends on who draws faster. He takes aim somewhere in the darkness and waits for the next break of the storm. It all happens in seconds: the lighting, the flash of the pistol, the bullet shot from the other side. It is followed by the sound of a horse tumbling over as it gallops.

Raoul quickly dismounts. His enemy’s bullet scratched him slightly on the neck just behind the ear. He quickly prods his horse, which sprints away, and he hides behind the trunk of a tree at the side of the road, waiting. It takes a few minutes but he finally sees them: Two men. One on a horse, the other on foot, having just lost his horse.

“One more bullet,” Raoul thinks. “My final chance.” He aims more carefully now and shoots at the man on the horse. “ _Sang Dieu_!” is the only thing the man has time to say before he falls lifeless on the ground. The second man draws his sword. “Come out, you coward!” he yells. Raoul can hear despair in his voice. Despair is useful.

He draws the Hauteclere from its sheath. “It is time my old friend,” he tells the ancient blade as he crosses swords with the man. They fight in the dark, feeling for each other’s presence, trying to keep their balance on the slippery mud. Their blades flicker as they meet, slicing the darkness: two men fighting to death in the middle of an empty country road. There is something in the man’s despair that Raoul perceives in his sword-fight. Out of pure instinct Raoul begins to retreat. “You are tired, young man!” his enemy scoffs. “You are all like that, aren’t you? Pampered aristocrats!” he growls. Raoul remains silent. The man lunges forward now in a clear attack, encouraged by Raoul’s silent retreat. Instead of parrying the attack as anyone might expect, in a split of a second, Raoul lunges forward too, sliding the Hauteclere underneath his enemy’s blade, and into his chest. The man falls on the ground gravely wounded.

Raoul checks himself for injuries. Few scratches from the swordfight and that earlier scratch on his neck, behind his ear from the stray bullet. Nothing serious. He grabs the reigns of the dead man’s horse and jumps onto the saddle. His first inclination is to follow the Minister’s carriage to Rouen but then he realizes the truth behind what just happened. The St. Honoré gate is not a safe exit from Paris, and clearly someone knows about the Minister’s plan. The Queen, the King, and Monsieur, his brother, are about to leave Paris at midnight following this very same route to Rouen. There is still time. They must be warned.

He turns the horse towards the city and rides back to Paris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Friquet: character inspired by a fictional character in Dumas’ Twenty Years After. He is a street urchin, very clever, mischievous, and street smart. He provides information to d’ Artagnan sometimes. Friquet is one of the boys of the Fronde (the boys with the slings) and his grandmother Dame Nanette is an old servant of M. Broussel.  
> (2) Filles-Dieu: This was a convent in the vicinity of the Court of Miracles.  
> (3) Dame Nanette: character inspired by a fictional character in Dumas’ Twenty Years After. In Dumas she is Friquet’s grandmother and M. Broussel’s old servant who almost starts a riot by herself. I decided to make her his cook rather than one of his servants.  
> (4) Louviéres Jerôme Broussel: seigneur de Louviéres, son of Pierre Broussel. When le Clere du Tremblay, Governor of the Bastille, surrendered to the Frondeurs in Jan. 1649, Pierre Broussel replaced him as Governor. However, he passed his functions to his son Jerôme. Dumas uses him as a character in Twenty Years After. The character here is inspired by Dumas. However, the action M. Louviéres is part of in this story is not found in Dumas.


	22. High Stakes

**Author: Mordaunt**

 

_“In this strange labyrinth, how shall I turn?”_

_(Mary Wroth 1587?-1651/3, From a Crown of Sonnets Dedicated to Love,_

_77 First of the Corona)_

_At the “Colombe D’ Or”: inn, outside the gates of St. Denis, same night._

 

He catches her seconds before she collapses on the floor. For a moment his mind is numb. After that he can think of nothing except: “this is impossible.” His wife does not belong to the world of fainting women. She cannot be unwell. He raises her head carefully, and cradles her against his chest. She has always been pale but never this way. He pulls himself together, his military training taking over from the complete terror of feeling her give away in his arms. He examines her carefully. Besides a few scratches and bruises, from climbing down the walls of the château Vincennes, there are no visible wounds. But she is unconscious. Worse: she is freezing cold, as if drained of all her blood. He feels her wrist for a pulse. It is extremely faint, barely there.

“Alessandra!” he calls, “open your eyes!” He strokes her pallid cheek softly, and touches her forehead with his lips. It is ice cold.  

Her eyelids move slightly. “Alessandra, can you hear me?” Her eyelids open. Her once brilliant green eyes now look dim and confused.  Her voice is barely audible. It does not even sound like her voice. “What…?”

“You fainted…”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I don’t faint…” she protests feebly, attempting to release herself from his arms and stand up. She collapses again, her breathing becoming uneven and much labored. He lifts her carefully carrying her to the bed, and quickly unlaces her riding jacket and stays. It does not seem to make any difference. He is at a complete loss, empty, blood throbbing in his temples: “this is impossible…”

“Some water…” he whispers, bringing a cup to her dry, ashen, lips. She turns her head away with disgust, as if the mere thought causes her pain.

Should he call for help? A physician? What if they are caught? The innkeeper has offered this backroom until early dawn, the time they were planning to escape to the border together. He must call for help…

 

“I need to see your master right now!” he tells a servant woman piling dirty sheets and linens into a basket outside the room. “I need a physician! My wife is unwell…” Could she be dying, he wonders? He dismisses the thought immediately, along with the memory of Sylvie’s last breath in his arms. “My wife is unwell…” he repeats to the servant, as if to persuade himself of this new, unfathomable, reality.

The woman nods abandoning her chores, and disappears in the dimly lit corridor. It feels like hours have passed rather than minutes. He raises her feet, and arranges the pillows in a way he thinks may help her breathing. She still feels cold in his arms.

“Alessandra, can you hear me?” She signals that she does.

“Are you in pain? You must tell me where…” Perhaps she injured her head during the descent from the walls of Vincennes, he reckons, or fell from her horse on her way to this inn. The latter is also impossible. She rides better than he does. There is another possibility…

He brings the water to her lips again. “Alessandra, you must drink some water!” he insists.

“No!” she protests despite her weakness, turning away and hiding her face in the pillows. She looks as if she is about to heave. Her breath becomes labored again. “Please, no…” she whispers.

Could it be…? _The prison with its walls laced in arsenic_ , that is what they call Vincennes.  He always dismissed this as an unfounded rumor… What if…?

 

The door opens and the innkeeper steps in followed by a woman. “Monsieur, the servant alerted us…” the innkeeper sounds worried and apologetic. “There is no physician, Monsieur. The city gates are closed this late at night. But even if the gates were open, we would never be able to summon a physician here without arousing suspicions. The roads are full of guards and soldiers… They know the Duc has escaped.”

The news comes as if from across another life. As if it pertains to someone else. Athos cares little about the Duc de Beaufort. “She is unwell,” he repeats, anger now rising in his voice alongside despair. “She needs a physician immediately!” A terrifying possibility has now taken hold in his mind and heart…

 

  

> _“…walls laced with arsenic…”_
> 
>  

“Monsieur,” the innkeeper continues, “my wife may be able to help. She is good with ladies in distress…” As he speaks the woman approaches the bed. She is fair-haired under her white cap, certainty and determination reflected in her bright blue gaze. Hers is a handsome, intelligent middle-aged face. At a younger age she was probably a beauty.

“My wife is not in distress,” Athos interjects. It is as if his anguish has consumed the air in the room. There was a midwife with Sylvie when she died. She was older than this woman but also looked as if she knew what she was doing. She didn’t. Sylvie died within a few hours after giving birth. It was a terrible birth. It was a terrible death.

“Stay away from her,” he is about to say but the woman pushes him aside utterly unaffected by his scowling face and threatening tone. She sits on the side of the bed and holds Alessandra’s hand. “It will all be fine, my dear,” she says in a quiet, affable voice, and turning to her husband, the innkeeper, she adds: “Go back to work. I will take care of things here.”

Athos is not used to being ignored in this manner. He sits at the other side of the bed glowering at the woman. But mostly, he is concerned about his wife’s worsening condition. She is restless, clearly suffering. She suddenly gives a low moan and tries to sit up as if she is about to heave but falls back exhausted: “I cannot…” she whispers gasping for air.

He is frantic. “Alessandra,” he exclaims smoothing her tangled hair. “Sweetheart, what did you eat? What did you drink? You must tell me…”

She is too weak to respond. She signs “no” with her head. He sees tears trickling down her pale cheeks. He has never seen her shed tears before. Perhaps she had wept once long ago, when his father died. She had stood under the large oak tree in his mother’s garden at La Fére among the blossoming forget-me-nots: “I was raised to believe gentlemen do not like weeping girls,” she had said wiping her eyes, and he had thought her a heartless liar. 

The woman interrupts Athos’ fruitless line of questioning, ignoring him once again: “My dear,” she asks Alessandra, “when was the last time you either ate or drunk something and managed to keep it down?” He is incensed. What an ignorant busybody! “What sort of question is this,” he is about to say, “can’t you see she is poisoned?” They are wasting precious time…

Alessandra opens her eyes and looks at the woman as if there is some sort of understanding between them. She tries to speak: “I am not sure,” she replies with difficulty, “some weeks now…?”

“I will make you a tea, my dear,” the woman says in her quiet, calm voice. “It will help you feel better and perhaps even sleep a little.” She stands up and motions to leave the room, her lips pursed, glaring at Athos. “Let her rest and do not upset her!” she tells him in a menacing tone.

“Weeks?” Athos asks the moment the woman leaves the room. “Weeks? You have been sick for weeks…?”

“I am not sick…” she ventures but stops short, overcome by what appears to be pain.

“Alessandra,” he says. His voice is unusually soft. “Why did you not tell me? Doing all the things you did, while you are unwell…”

“I am not unwell!” she insists. She sounds exasperated. Is it because he is so utterly unable to help her? Is it because of her own weakness? “I am not unwell,” she repeats more forcefully. “I did not think much of it. I thought it would be just as it was with Raoul…”

“Alessandra, what are you saying...?” It strikes him suddenly how entirely dense he has been about what is happening. But then again, Sylvie had always kept such matters to herself. “Are you…?”

 “Yes,” she retorts, her tone inscrutable.

“And you did not think to tell me?”

“I thought I might, perhaps, after all this was over…,” she says quietly.

“After?” He tries to contain the anger in his voice. “Do not upset her,” the disapproving innkeeper’s wife demanded… “Do you think I care about any of this? About de Beaufort, or the Fronde, or politics…” 

“Don’t you?” she interjects, her green gaze penetrating the innermost recesses of his soul. She is the only person who can do that. “You came all the way to Venice to find me after more than a decade. You came to find me because you hoped I would return with you, specifically for this: for politics, for Aramis… That is the only reason…”

“That is not true,” he protests realizing that, in fact, it has been exactly as she describes it: selfish. He kisses her hands. “I do not care,” he says slowly. “Yes, it is true: I cared once. I cared a great deal. But now there is you, and Raoul, and…”

She closes her eyes exhausted, a sad smile on her lips. She signs “no” with her head.

“You do not have to prove yourself to me!” he exclaims, despite her silent protest.

“I always have to prove myself to you…” she whispers feebly. “Since the day we first met in London (1). Perhaps even earlier than that…” Her breathing betrays that it is difficult for her to speak, but she continues: “There was a time you did not even think I had a soul, remember? You asked me to prove it by helping you destroy Rochefort. A peculiar thing to ask someone, whose lost soul you purported to care for… ” There is no bitterness in her voice, only sorrow.

He remembers being disappointed in her before he even knew her name. He remembers that night at the tavern in Paris, when he had accused her of having no soul just to elicit her help to save Aramis from Rochefort’s grip. He remembers his anger because she refused to follow his terms. He remembers that it was her intervention that made all the difference.  “I was a fool…” he says, lowering his eyes.

It occurs to her that it is the first time she hears him say it as if he actually means it. She touches his hand: “Athos, you must leave. If you remain here with me you will be arrested.”

“I am not leaving you,” he retorts.  

“You have left many times before, and it all turned out fine in the end,” she says attempting to suppress the wave of nausea and dizziness that keeps returning relentlessly.

“I am not leaving you,” he repeats. “Not this time. Not again. Never again.”

“Don’t say never,” she wants to tell him but she hears regret in his voice. It makes her wonder if she has underestimated him. She has been guilty of that in the past. Perhaps this time he means it? If only she did not feel so exhausted. She hates this weakness. She has always trusted herself to appear unaffected no matter the calamity or difficulty ahead. Now she is tired and terrified and it angers her all the more because he witnesses it.  

 

“I told you to let her rest and not upset her!” The innkeeper’s wife enters the room carrying a tray. “Try to drink a little of this, my dear,” she urges her patient. The dark red liquid is spicy, and it reminds Alessandra of the savory pies they pretended to sell at the stall outside Vincennes. She despised their smell.

“I cannot,” she tries to say but the smell of the tea alone makes her heave.

“Get me some cold water immediately,” the woman orders Athos. “And some of the clean towels I brought. Make yourself useful.”

He obliges obediently. The last time he felt this powerless was that terrible night when he last held Sylvie. “Sleep, love,” he had whispered, and she passed away in his arms. He cherishes that memory as much as he abhors it. He hates not to be in control. He hates to think that no matter what he does it will make no difference. Perhaps, this time it may…?

 

The woman silently leads him to the other side of the room. “Monsieur, I have seen this before and here is what I know: it may pass in time,” she confides.

“So, she will be fine soon? We can leave then?” He sounds hopeful.

The woman stares at him astounded by his naiveté. “Have you ever had any children, Monsieur? It may take weeks or even months. If she is lucky. It may be like this until the baby comes. It may get worse…”

He feels choked. As if he cannot breathe. “Worse? How much worse?”

“She may not be able to eat and drink at all. The baby will keep growing, until it stops. Or until she…”

 

 

> _“Sleep, love” he had whispered to Sylvie…_

 

“No!” he exclaims. “She is strong. She is the strongest person I know.”

The disapproving frown has disappeared from the woman’s gaze. She grabs his hands and he is astonished that he finds her touch soothing. “Then make sure you remind her that,” she urges him. “And stop upsetting her as you have been doing all this time!” 

He lowers his gaze. It is a stupid question but he must ask it. Somewhere in the roads outside this inn between Paris and St. Denis, M. de Comminges and his men are looking for them. “Can she travel, Madame?”

“Of course not. She should be in her bed, resting,” the innkeeper’s wife replies. “But I understand you cannot stay here. For your own good and ours, you must leave. She cannot ride, of course, and she cannot travel too far. How far were you planning to go…?”

“To the border,” sounds like a ridiculous thing to admit under the circumstances. There is only one place to go. Back to Bragelonne. In a strange way, it occurs to Athos that it is also the safest place to be: far from Paris, and untouched by the riots. De Commiges and his men would never dare to venture so far out of the Queen’s jurisdiction, and into the lands of the Duc d’ Orléans, who has remained neutral so far, to arrest a nobleman, a friend of the Duc, in his own estate. “As far as Blois?” Athos ventures.

The woman looks troubled. “If you must… You need to find a way to get her there as comfortably as possible… All we have here is an old cart, which we use to carry hay for the stables…”

“I will think of something…” he promises but he is at a loss. If only there was a way to get a message to Porthos without compromising him… If only there was a way to get a message to anyone without putting them in danger of arrest…

Alessandra stirs and the woman hurries at her bedside.  He stands for a while at the side of the room staring at the storm raging outside the window. He had not even noticed…

 

It is then that he sees it, peaking from Alessandra’s saddle bag, which lays on the floor next to her cloak where she collapsed: A red leather-bound journal (1.) It looks worn and old. He has never seen it before. He picks it up and realizes it is unlocked. Folded inside the cover is a letter in the handwriting of someone Athos never expected to encounter again:

  

 

> _Dear Old Friend,_
> 
> _I should be joyous to hear that you have returned. Then again, it concerns me that you might have returned for all the wrong reasons, and to be with the wrong people. You will find me at our old meeting place two nights from now. It is still there and as rowdy as when you left it, just more ancient and much darker, having been left without the light in those green eyes of yours, for too long…_
> 
> _Welcome back, love. You were missed._
> 
> _Lucien_  

 

It is not that Athos does not know that Lucien Grimaud survived to be a wealthy privateer. Sometime in the past he heard that Sophia de la Croix married the man. Sylvie was still alive then. And somewhere at the back of his mind, he also knows that the barge they used to evacuate the Duc de Beaufort from Vincennes was acquired through Lucien Grimaud: the man who has haunted him ever since they first met on a bloody battlefield in Spain. The man who murdered Captain de Treville.

He is resurrected now, with his neat, slanted, handwriting, his backhanded accusations, and… what was that… courting? Genuine attraction? The sense of familiarity in Grimaud’s letter leaves a bitter taste in Athos’ mouth. Were they intimate? Are they still…? He checks himself halfway through that thought. He realizes suddenly how easy it still is to suspect her immediately, to waver in his trust of her, to be envious of all those who surround her. “You do not need to prove yourself to me,” he promised her but a little while ago. Did he actually mean it?

 

He folds the letter and places it back inside the red leather-bound journal.

The woman attending Alessandra touches him softly on the shoulder. “Monsieur,” she whispers, “she is getting worse… I fear little can be done…”

He sinks in an old armchair, Alessandra’s journal still in his hands. They must leave at dawn. And dawn is just hours away.

_“It concerns me that you might have returned for all the wrong reasons…”_ Grimaud writes. Athos decides not to linger on anything else in that letter besides this: Grimaud’s concern for an old friend. That is enough. “Would I do it?” Athos asks himself. “Would I condescend?”

 

Alessandra is sick again. The innkeeper’s wife helps her lie back in bed. She is too weak now to do this by herself.  “I need to bring more water and towels,” she tells Athos as she leaves the room.

He sits by the bed, and holds Alessandra’s hand. It is cold, although she feels very warm, feverish. Her breathing is shallow and difficult. “Would I do it?” he asks himself. The answer is obvious: this is not about him. It was never about him…  

The moment the innkeeper’s wife returns he grabs pen and paper. He writes:

  

 

> _Monsieur Grimaud,_
> 
> _I write on behalf of your old friend whose life is in danger. She needs your help immediately. Come to the Colombe d’ Or outside St. Denis and ask for Monsieur Olivier._
> 
> _Athos de la Fére_

 

“I need to speak to your husband,” he tells the innkeeper’s wife, sealing his letter.

 

****

 

“Of course, I have heard of M. Grimaud,” the innkeeper assures Athos. “Most of us have. Powerful man. Fair too…”

 Athos has no interest in what the innkeeper and his staff think of M. Grimaud. But some inclinations are stronger than others.

“And a hard man too, Monsieur.” The innkeeper continues. “Would not want to displease him or disappoint him. Céline (2) our servant, knows him from the old days.  Her man, who works in our stables, does business for one of M. Grimaud’s associates from time to time. Just the other day…”

Athos is too exhausted and exasperated to put up with such unadulterated admiration. He interrupts his host, hardly able to suppress his irritation. “I need to get a message to M. Grimaud immediately!”

“Of course, Monsieur! Of course!” the innkeeper replies. “I will make sure he gets your message right away…”

 

It is a difficult night. Time passes at a painfully slow pace. Alessandra is much worse: just a few drops of water or the slightest smell can make her sick, although she is far too feeble now even for that. The innkeeper’s wife, who Athos discovered is named Madame Perrette, tries another infusion, gold in color and bland this time. “If she manages to keep it down it will at least make her sleep,” she tells Athos. He can see that the woman has lost her earlier confidence and certainty. She is now worried and he finds this even more unsettling. 

Alessandra’s sleep is restless at first. At times she shivers as if she is very cold, and then is feverish and uneasy. “It will all be fine…” he whispers kissing her burning, pale brow. He sits next to her on the bed, cradling her in his arms. Finally, he feels her breath easing, and her muscles relaxing. He hopes this may be a turn for the best.

He rests his head against the headboard and closes his eyes. It feels as if he has travelled very far this night. He wonders how much further he has to go. He knows that the answer is right there, in his hands: small, red, and leather-bound. Her journal. He has been fighting the temptation to read it ever since he discovered it. He gives in… He has never been able to withstand temptation.

Her entire life is in it (1.)  _“I write it down, so I can forget it,”_ notes her fourteen-year-old self. There is a great deal to forget: the brutal siege at Uzés, and the sordid house of Madame Solange where they first met late one summer night, while girls were being auctioned off like cattle; England, George de Winter, the Duke of Buckingham, and the Cardinal; their old house at La Fére, his parents, Catherine, Thomas… Thomas… “ _I do not care to remember more of that night,”_ she writes about the night he raped her. _“It is an unseen scar I dare not touch. But the waves of rage that came after, I cannot forget.”_

He recognizes himself too, although she rarely mentions him by name. “ _The man who has betrayed me more than anyone_ ,” she calls him. “ _He did not stay to witness my execution. There had never been any love, just the desire to possess. I, too, was guilty of this,”_ she observes dispassionately. Her pen is as unforgiving, penetrating, direct, and clear-sighted as her green gaze. His younger self would have felt defensive, angry, and exposed by the portrait she sketches. Instead, he feels complete. The portrait she sketches is honest. It reveals a part of himself he always knew existed but never dared to confront. He encounters it now, in the pages of her journal, tamed by her pen, and realizes it is no longer intimidating.

A slight scratch on the door: Athos, closes the journal and slips it back into her saddle bag. He opens the door as quietly as possible.

 

“Monsieur Olivier,” the innkeeper whispers. “You have a visitor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) “Past Remembered, Past Forgotten,” posted on AO3: that story is based on Milady’s journal, which Athos reads here.  
> (2) Based on the character of “Céline,” one of Saracen’s women from “Musketeers Do Not Die Easily” (Season 1, Finale)


	23. Dear Old Enemy

**Author: Mordaunt**

_No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:_  
_Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud,_  
_Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,  
_ _And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud._

_(William Shakespeare, 1564-1616, Sonnet 35)_

 

Lucien Grimaud steps into the room, tall, broad-shouldered, and cloaked in deep purple, fur-lined, wool. A rich man, in rich man’s clothes. He used to wear cheap rings on every finger, Athos recalls. Now there is only a large sapphire seal-ring on the index finger of his left hand carved with his initials and the de la Croix crest. His face is less lined than Athos remembers, less weary under the eyes. They stare back at Athos, coal black, and inscrutable: the eyes of the man who murdered his Captain. The eyes of the deadly enemy he failed to kill.

Athos’ hand inadvertently reaches for the hilt of his poniard, tucked in his leather belt. A mocking light flashes in Grimaud’s coal dark eyes, that follow Athos’ slightest movement. “You came,” Athos observes.

“I will always come for her.” Grimaud moves towards Athos, who silently retreats placing a sword’s distance between them. In the deafening silence, Alessandra stirs in her bed. Grimaud’s dark gaze changes suddenly. Athos never thought such a thing was possible: there is worry in that gaze now, and fear. “What did you do to her…?”

He motions towards the bed but Athos blocks his way. His voice is quiet, deliberate, and surprisingly calm. “Before you take another step, Monsieur” Athos declares, “you and I need to come to an understanding…”

“What did you do to her?” Grimaud growls pushing forward. He is only a breath away now. This is the closest they have ever stood. “Step back,” Athos warns, his voice still calm.

He retreats, to Athos’ surprise. “What is wrong with her?” he rephrases, his tone menacing although hued now by a feeling that he is unable to suppress: anguish. Athos counts on that feeling.

“She is with child…” Athos begins.

“I know that. Any man with eyes and a brain would know that…” Grimaud scoffs. “And if you actually cared for her at all, which you don’t, you would have seen it.”

The accusation hits a nerve. Athos feels blood rising to his temples. He is surprised that his voice betrays nothing. “She is unable to keep anything down. Not even water. She is very sick and getting worse. She has a fever.”

Grimaud remembers hearing something about this kind of sickness. A wife of one of his associates, died long ago, while she was pregnant of an ailment that sounds similar. What would he do if this was Sophia, he wonders? He lowers his gaze, his tone milder: “Has a physician seen her?” He knows it is a stupid question the moment he utters it. The gates of St. Denis are closed and they are fugitives. But he has to say something.

“There is no one here,” Athos replies, quietly. “Just me and a midwife…”

“I am surprised you stayed,” Grimaud sneers. “You never stayed before. Always left others to clean up your messes… Anne got the worse of that, of course, her entire life.”

“We do not have time for this, Monsieur!” Athos interjects forcing himself to hide his anger. From the bed behind him, he hears Alessandra’s feeble voice, calling his name.

Grimaud continues ignoring Athos’ warning, rage rising in his voice. “How many times have you dangled your precious approval to get her to do your bidding and then left her to cope by herself? You even condemned her to death to protect your family honor. All for that precious rapist brother of yours and his demented wife…Do you think I do not know?”

Alessandra’s description of that terrible morning has haunted Athos since he read it in her journal:

> _“I saw him riding on his horse.”_ She wrote. _“I saw him riding away. He did not wait until the end. I held a small bouquet of forget-me-nots in my hand. I foolishly imagined that I might touch his heart somehow. He never saw the flowers. He was not there. It was for the best.”_

Now this fiend returns to it, his words brutal and blunt. It is a well calculated strike, Athos thinks, but her words are far more painful than anything this wretch has to say.

“You need to stop, Monsieur,” he repeats.

“Does my honesty insult your highborn sensibilities, M. le Comte? Is it still “Comte”? I forget…” Grimaud scoffs. “What did she have to do this time to prove herself worthy of your impossible standards, before you reject her once again? I would not put it past you if she had to climb those walls of Vincennes or swim the freezing moat…” The look in Athos’ eyes confirms Grimaud’s suspicions. “Good gracious,” he thinks, “she had to!” He walks towards Athos, his voice more threatening: “You are a heartless, disgusting hypocrite,” he growls. “How are you different from Richelieu? Or that treacherous cousin of yours, Rochefort? You all used her. But you are the worst…”

A scornful glimmer animates Athos’ eyes and a smile full of disdain crosses his lips: “Monsieur,” he retorts, “you cannot insult me no matter what you say. You are a baseborn killer. You murdered a great man. An innocent man. In cold blood…”

“The man I killed was not innocent…” Grimaud seethes with rage. All he can think is Sophia suffering alone in that cold monastery where she was abandoned. All he can see is Sophia weeping in his arms for their lost child, the child that de Treville and Athos stole from them…

“You were a criminal,” Athos continues mercilessly his hand now on the hilt of his poniard, “and that is all you will ever be despite your vulgar exhibition of care and noble sentiment towards my wife.”

“Stop…Athos, please…” Alessandra exclaims from the bed behind Athos.

“And yet, here you are, asking this baseborn, vulgar criminal, to clean up your mess…” Grimaud sneers, reaching for his sword. He freezes midsentence.

“Stop, both of you!” Alessandra has mustered all the strength she has left, half raising herself on the bed. “Stop, please… just stop!” her voice suddenly breaks and she falls back, sobbing. “Stop!”

“Good lord!” the door bursts open and Madame Perrette dashes in. “What are you two doing? Are you both intent on killing her?” She pushes Grimaud aside, a scowl on her face. “I don’t care who you are, Monsieur, or what you are capable of. But I will not let you torture her like this!” she exclaims. She glowers at Athos: “I warned you!”

They both stand now, Grimaud and Athos, side by side, speechless and stupefied.  

“This is not Anne,” is all Grimaud can think. “This is not _my_ Anne…” It is not often that he is not sure about what to do or say. He never imagined she could weep. But she sobs now, and despite Madame Perrette’s best efforts she is inconsolable. Athos regains his composure almost immediately. He hurries to his wife side, gently smoothing her long black curls off her face. “I apologize, sweetheart,” he whispers kissing her. “ _Sweetheart_?” Grimaud did not think the word existed in the man’s vocabulary. He cannot believe the man was capable of any gentleness or affection. He is an aloof, standoffish, brute. Heartless and selfish. People like Anne, people like himself, are of little importance to people like Athos: used and discarded at their convenience. Summarily executed. And yet, here he is now, tenderly cradling her in his arms, completely ignoring Grimaud’s sneering gaze. “It is all fine now,” he assures her gently.

She slowly calms down. She raises her worn, tear-streaked face, turning her eyes towards the man who stands at the foot of the bed, still unable to comprehend what he witnesses. Her lips form his name. She is too weak to speak it: “Lucien…”

“…Anne?… Love?” Grimaud’s tone has lost its jagged coarseness. It is soft, tentative, and gentle. Athos did not think it possible for a man like this. He stares in disbelief as Grimaud kneels next to Alessandra, kissing her hand. “Yes, love, it is me, Lucien…” She smiles feebly and he kisses her hand again, more like an older brother Athos realizes, than a lover. “I am here, love and all will be fine now,” he says giving Athos a meaningful look. “We will take you home.”

 


	24. Fugitives

**Author: Mordaunt**

_O more than moon,  
__Draw not up seas to drown me in thy sphere,  
__Weep me not dead, in thine arms, but forbear_  
To teach the sea what it may do too soon; 

_(John Donne, A Valediction: Of weeping, 1633)_

 

It is a silent truce they establish, Athos and Lucien Grimaud. Neither of them speaks of terms or conditions. They agree on one thing: she must get safely out of this inn while there is time. She seems to be asleep although her breathing is much too labored, and her fever is spiking. Grimaud wonders if there is still time. “Where to?” he asks.

“Bragelonne…at Blois,” Athos retorts and strangely Grimaud finds himself in agreement. That is probably the safest place. Tentative though it may be, the protection of the Duc d’ Orleans is all they have now against a Queen’s wrath.

“I brought my wife’s carriage,” Grimaud says, and Athos is surprised by the man’s foresight. “I hid it in the grove behind the inn. It will not keep us entirely safe, but the de la Croix coat of arms counts for something even in these strange times. It’s about twenty hours from here to Blois by carriage…”

“It may take longer. We may have to stop…” Athos says. “I fear she will not make it…” he adds. Grimaud can hear despair in the man’s voice. What if this was Sophia, he asks himself and the mere thought raises a knot in his throat, choking him. Thank God this is not Sophia, is all Grimaud can think, and immediately wonders if that is cruel and selfish: he loves Anne… But…thank God this is not Sophia…

Someone knocks at the door and Madame Perrette opens it carefully. “Messieurs!” She sounds terrified. “Céline just told me that M. de Comminges and his men have arrived at the courtyard. They are here to search the inn…”

Grimaud stands up immediately. “I will take care of Comminges,” he tells Athos. “Be ready to leave in half an hour. There is a storm outside. Make sure she is kept warm.”

 

****

 

It takes longer than that. “Comminges, is a clever bastard. I am surprised you managed to distract him at all,” Athos tells Grimaud. They still need to traverse the dark gallery above the inn’s dining hall where de Comminges’ men are now drinking waiting for the storm to subside. It is the only way to reach the back door.

“What if there is a guard back there?” Athos asks, as he carefully lifts Alessandra from bed, wrapped in thick blankets. He carries her to the door.

“I will take care of the guard,” Grimaud says as if it is the simplest thing in the world. “Most of Comminges’ men are drunk already. By the time they figure out their guard is missing, we will be at least an hour ahead of them, and they do not know our destination. Unless the innkeeper speaks…” he says, his tone menacing towards Madame Perrette.

“My husband will never betray you, Monsieur. Neither will I and neither will our servant, Céline. You know her well,” she whispers, a slight tremor in her voice.

“He’d better not. You’d all better not…” Grimaud growls, and Athos realizes the power this man has over a world he had never considered before this night.

 

The gallery above the dining hall is narrow and its old planked floor creaks under their feet. Athos is thankful for the thunderstorm raging outside, and Grimaud’s plan to make sure de Comminges’ men become rowdy and drunk. They walk carefully their backs against the wall, concealed in the dimly lit gallery. Alessandra has fainted. This much Athos can tell. “ _Sleep love_ ,” he had whispered to Sylvie. What if he cannot even do that? “I shall not fail you…” he whispers to his wife, knowing well that she cannot hear him, and that he might fail her in the worse way imaginable.

M. de Comminges is no fool. Two of his men are guarding the back door of the inn. “Wait here,” Grimaud whispers to Athos, pulling a jagged steel dagger out of his belt. A pirate’s dagger. “No pistols, no swords,” he adds. “We want this done as quietly as possible. Let them think it is murder first, rather than the sort of battle you noblemen fight. It might buy us time.” Athos agrees. There is no time for honorable swordfights. Besides, evidence of such a fight would give them away immediately.

“Do it,” he urges Grimaud, and immediately adds, “I would do exactly the same, for all its worth. I would slit their throats. No pistols, no swords.”

Grimaud nods. He understands Athos’ meaning: there is no recrimination. He nods: “Just make sure she survives this. It is now on both our heads if she doesn’t…” 

 

Athos stays behind, inside the inn, with Alessandra in his arms. He cannot hear much, the sounds of Grimaud’s fight with the two guards muffled by the pounding of the rain against the roof. “It is done! Come quickly!” Grimaud whispers through the door. 

Athos covers Alessandra with the blankets and ventures in the pouring rain, trying to balance his steps in the slippery muck underneath his feet. Somewhere around him two of de Comminges’ men lay lifeless, their throats slit by a pirate’s dagger. But for the lighting that scars the dark skies, he can barely see Grimaud: just a cloaked shadow walking ahead of them, his sword drawn now.

The carriage is concealed in a dark grove behind the inn. It is small but comfortable inside. Grimaud jumps on top seizing the reins. Athos lays Alessandra on the seat. Her face is ashen, wan. “She is not breathing!” he yells at Grimaud, who rushes to his side. Athos tries to find a heartbeat but cannot. Frantically he removes the wet blankets. “We must help her breathe,” he tells Grimaud, pressing on her chest. “I have done this before…” he adds. He sounds uncertain.

Neither of them is sure if it takes seconds or hours. It feels like hours. She suddenly gasps for air. Athos raises her in his arms: “Breathe…!” he urges her. She does, with great difficulty. She is still unconscious. Athos collapses on the carriage floor. Grimaud also feels as if his legs are about to give away. He reaches for the flask of brandy in his belt and offers some to Athos.

“I thought I had given this up,” Athos says taking the flask from Grimaud’s hands.

“Time to start again,” Grimaud retorts. They begin to laugh, seated on either side of the carriage, soaking wet, a flask of brandy between them empty now on the carriage floor. It is a tense, nervous laugh: relief mingled with anguish.  Athos passes his hands through his hair. He looks exhausted but his voice betrays nothing but determination. “I will stay back here with her,” he says. “I have my pistols and hers. Neither of us can be seen. I fear I cannot help you much out there.”

“I will manage,” Grimaud replies, closing the carriage doors and jumping onto the coachman’s box. “Make sure she lives, and I will take care of the rest. If we are stopped do not show yourself or act until I give word. We may be able to escape without a fight…”

 

The carriage moves slowly. Grimaud follows old muddy backroads, trying to avoid any encounters with patrols looking for the Duc de Beaufort. They have to stop often: the continuous movement of the carriage makes Alessandra sick. When she heaves, it is blood now. Neither Grimaud nor Athos talk about it, as if speaking about it will make it happen, but they are no longer certain she will reach Blois alive. They simply press on.

 

Athos wakes as the carriage suddenly stalls. He fell asleep lulled by its slow movement. Alessandra is nested in his arms. He can feel her uneven, shallow breath against his skin. There is commotion outside. Men on horses. He reaches for his pistol.

“Ah! Is her grace in the carriage?” a voice inquires. “That stupid fishmonger she was arguing with at St. Honoré let her go finally! He was demoted.  He is back to gutting fish now!”Athos recognizes Sophia in this: he can see her arguing with a fishmonger at the gate of St. Honoré… 

“Yes, Milord!” Grimaud’s voice responds from above. He is putting on a fake accent. Rough at the edges.

The horsemen laugh loudly. “Milord, eh?” they tease. “My friend, you are addressing the King of Paris himself!”

“A citizen patrol,” Athos realizes. “What are they doing this far from Paris?” He relaxes slightly. After all these are his allies. In a way…

“The King of Paris! I should have known!” Grimaud chuckles.

“We are looking for a young officer,” the King of Paris continues.

“Strange....” Athos thinks.

“He helped the Prime Minister escape tonight!” says another man.

“Aramis! Aramis has left Paris? This is a coup…” Athos’ heart jumps a beat. It explains why it took so long for M. de Comminges to get to St. Denis.

“Nebuchadnezzar left Paris, eh?” Grimaud exclaims in the same crude accent. “Finally, Paris is ours! Hail to the Fronde!”

“Hail to the Fronde!” the King of Paris repeats with excitement. “Remember the carriage of Monsieur le Prince that passed by your lady’s carriage while you were waiting at St. Honoré? The one escorted by a Musketeer and an officer?”

“Yes,” Grimaud lies. He should remember but he was falling asleep while Sophia was arguing with that fat fishmonger at the gate.

“Well, they got out, and that’s that,” the King of Paris continues, failing to mention that it was mostly his doing. “The Coadjutor and M. Louviéres want to find that officer. If it was not for him the Minister would never have made it out of Paris. The carriage was almost stopped. That officer killed two of their best men. Ambushed them all by himself…”

“Not a Musketeer?” Athos wonders. He was not aware there was such a defender of Queen and Minister out there besides d’ Artagnan’s Musketeers.

“Have not seen any officers around here!” Grimaud shrugs. “Just rabbits and some deer!”

They all laugh heartily at the joke.

“Look,” Grimaud says in a confidential tone, “my lady is tired back there and she is eager to get back to her children. You do not want an argument with her, do you?”

“Lord Jesus, no!” replies the King of France and they all laugh. “Move on, my friend!” he tells Grimaud. “And if you see an officer, in these parts send us word! He is young. The aide de camp of General du Vallon!”

“Raoul!” Athos exclaims in shock, as the carriage begins to move.

 


	25. After the Storm

**Author: Mordaunt**

 

 _Ah, silly Soul art thou so sore afraid?_  
 _Mourn not, my dear, nor be not so dismayed_  
 _Fortune cannot, with all her power and skill_  
 _Enforce my heart to think thee any ill_.

_(Anonymous, 16 thc.?, The song appears in Anne Cromwell’s Virginal Book, 1638 but it is earlier)_

 

 

Grimaud paces in the candle-lit corridor. The night is bright outside after another fierce thunderstorm: clear starlit skies and a full moon are shining now over the low hills and small valleys of the Loire.

His first inclination was to leave Bragelonne as soon as they arrived. It made him uncomfortable, this neat château, modest compared to the de la Croix estate, but exuding the kind of old privilege and ancient nobility that is ostentatious while being completely unassuming. He longs to return to his wife and children. They were constantly in his mind during the desperate flight to Bragelonne. “Thank God it is not Sophia…” Grimaud repeated to himself, as he led the carriage along muddy backroads and trails. His mind drifted to the dark cold halls of the monastery, where long ago, Sophia was left almost dying to give birth, shot by the very same man who now depends on his help. Then it drifted further still, to a child growing up alone in the streets of Paris or, worse, having to face the cruelty of Christian philanthropy offered in its sordid orphanages.

 

In the end, Grimaud decided to stay…

 

He tells himself it is because the roads are most likely flooded, but deep down he knows that he will never leave Anne before he knows she is safe. Anne gave him this life he cherishes so dearly: Sophia and his children.  It was the price she demanded from the Queen Regent for a death she would never have agreed to otherwise. She did not have to do it. She did not have to agree to anything. She did it because she could: “You both deserve this,” she told him. “This is my gift to you and to Sophia.” She handed him a pardon and a commission. The Queen needed privateers with his skills and connections, so she agreed to the marriage… That is how it all started. His new life.

He refuses the rooms he is given for the night. “I will wait here,” he tells the young servant who offers to show him the way. 

Athos disappears in his wife’s bedchamber. The physician arrives also: a certain Dr. Basot, personal physician to the Duchess d’ Orléans: young, efficient, and eager. Anne is in good hands, Grimaud tells himself although it does nothing to alleviate his fears. When they carried her in the house she was burning with fever and struggling for breath. Then there is Athos… Grimaud mistrusts him completely: his intransigence, his blind adherence to all sorts of lofty noble sentiments, his constant wavering where Anne is concerned. There are many moments during this terrible night, when he has to suppress the urge push through Anne’s door and take matters in his hands. This could never have been Sophia, he realizes. Sophia would never have found herself in Anne’s position, forced to prove herself to a man with so little regard for her wellbeing. The only time Sophia ever found herself in peril was when Athos and that beloved Captain of his were in charge. In the end, his little daughter paid the highest price of all.

 

****

In Anne’s bedchamber, Dr. Basot is not the kind of physician who equivocates. He speaks quietly as he wipes his hands in a clean linen towel. “This is a dangerous ailment, M. le Comte, for both mother and child. Sometimes it gets better after the first few months but your wife is past that time. It would help to know if this happened to her before, with her son. If it persists however, it is possible that it will get worse. The mother gets weaker you see, while the child grows. It is usually the mother's heart that gives away in the end...”

Athos leans against the paneled wall, as if unable to stand. “She is strong…” is all he can muster.

The physician smiles a kind smile: “It may not come to that at all. But I must tell you what you may have to face. Right now, our concern is this fever. We must bring it down or she will not survive this night. I cannot bleed her, she is too weak…”

They use wet cold towels instead, and then wrap her in damp cold sheets. She barely reacts to the discomfort. There are few moments when she seems more lucid. “Alessandra,” Athos whispers gently “sweetheart, can you hear me?” She cannot. Her lips form Raoul’s name, and then his. And sometimes, Athos is certain, it is Lucien she asks for.  

“I cannot think of anything else, M. le Comte.” Dr. Basot, sits in an armchair desponded. “I must bleed her. There is no other recourse…”

It occurs to Athos that he has been in this position before. Only that time, with Sylvie, he allowed all kinds of treatments that made little difference. Alessandra will not die like that. Athos knows exactly what she would have said, if she could. He can hear her voice in his mind, clear and determined, scoffing at the entire thing. “End it!” she says narrowing her green eyes and smiling that inscrutable and playful smile of hers.

 “No. No bleeding,” Athos says quietly. “That is enough. She has suffered enough.”

“M. le Comte, you realize…” Dr. Basot remarks.

“Yes, perfectly,” Athos’ voice is solemn, but for a slight quiver. The physician touches him on the shoulder. “I will leave you, Monsieur,” he says. “I will be outside in case you need me. You should be alone with her now.”

The physician’s words, gentle and kind though they are, feel like a piercing blade. Athos paces frantically in the room. Outside the soft colors of dawn are rising in the horizon. What is it like, he suddenly wonders, to wake up in a world where she no longer exists? He realizes that all these years, despite all that passed between them, the world made sense because she was in it, living, somewhere. “I realize,” he wrote to her in his parting letter long ago, “that my soul has wrapped itself around you, and there it will always remain…”  He never parted from her, it occurs to him now. Despite the war. Despite Sylvie. He has carried her with him all this time: the way she tilts her head and narrows her eyes when she disagrees. The curve of her neck when she reads. Her long eye lashes on her freckled cheeks when she sleeps. “I refuse to do this, Alessandra, do you hear me?” he exclaims in anger. “I will not do this…” his voice breaks, “I cannot…” His legs give away now, and he sinks on the floor beside her bed. He did not think himself capable of tears, and yet these tears he can no longer contain. He remains there for a while, at the side of her bed, sobs shaking his entire body. When he looks up again, the pale sunlight is peaking through the drawn curtains. He reaches for her hand and the green, bright light of her eyes meet his, a soft pink blush on her pale cheeks. She smiles feebly and extends her hand. “Athos?”

He says nothing. He simply cups his hands around her worn face. He kisses her brow, her eyes, her cheeks, her lips… “I could not do it… I could not let you go…” he says.

She smiles, “you called me sweetheart,” she whispers. 

“I did?” he is blushing now. He sounds embarrassed, like a small boy caught in some mischief.

He lowers his gaze, his tone tentative “…I am sorry…?”

“No,” she says, “don’t be… I liked it…”

 

****

Grimaud left that morning in his wife’s carriage. A passenger now, Athos having provided him with a coachman and a servant. Anne was asleep when he kissed her goodbye. She was quiet and peaceful.

“Take care of her,” he tells Athos as he exits the château.

“Thank you,” he replies. “For all you did…”

“I did it for her, not for you. I will do anything for her. I owe her everything…”

Athos looks bemused but does not probe further. “Tell Sophia…” he begins but Grimaud interrupts him.

“I will not give her any messages from you,” he says quietly. “You have injured my wife enough.”

“I thought it was past us.” Athos replies. “It is so long ago, I thought…”

Grimaud climbs into the carriage. “Oh, but it is not long ago. She has to live with your old decisions still. You have cost her, you have cost us, our daughter…”

“What daughter? I don’t understand…” Athos exclaims, genuinely surprised.

 

“It does not matter,” Grimaud says, closing the carriage door.


	26. Where Angels Should Fear to Tread...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sixteen years ago Lucien Grimaud watched as Athos shot and killed the woman he loved. Four years later, he learned that she had lived although the child she carried had died. Grimaud embarked upon a war of revenge, culminating in Treville's death and a confrontation with Athos in the passageways under the cathedral. The official report file by the Musketeers listed Grimaud as dead - but he lived. Protected by powerful government officials he resumed his work as a privateer, enriching the royal treasury. Now, he and his wife have discovered that the child, a daughter, lived. He searches for her and answers as to who was responsible. 
> 
> Now, the city in turmoil over political upheaval and while drama is unfolding at the city gates among our young heroes - an unlikely alliance is formed to search for a missing daughter....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucien's story is told in 'To hell with circumstances...' and 'Whoever tells the tale...'
> 
> Sophia de l'Croix's story is told in 'A plain unvarnished tale...'

…we still break each other's heart sometimes  
Spent some nights on the jagged side  
Somehow we wake up in each other's arms…(Martina McBride)

Lucien walked slowly down the wooden walkway that led to the wharf. He sat on an upended barrel and tapped the ash from the cigar he was smoking. It was late in the evening, wispy clouds drifting across a full moon. The river drifted before him, dark and silent, its quiet steady movement broken by the occasional plop of fish breaking water. Behind him the cries of the mobs thronging the streets drifted through the still night. Lantern light pierced the darkness and smoke hung over the raucous streets from fires set by both rebels and guards to stop the other from advancing. During the day the activity along the waterfront was intermittent, as the embargo on the city continued, but at night, more experienced rivermen were busy gliding into the port and making their deliveries – some legal and some not.

His mood was grim – he had gone today to another foundling hospital. Another three-story stone building set back from the road, a bare dirt yard bracketed by two wings. More groups of children dressed in gray short pants and shirt all of a similar size being herded around the yard by women and a few nuns in hooded robes. It was unclear if the children were of the same age or all stunted equally in their growth. It was a gray day, a gray stone building and many of the nun’s robes were also gray – whether from age or design of color. The street that ran in front of the building was potholed with standing water collecting in the well rutted road. Children played to the side of the street, making mud figures or tiny tilting square shapes – perhaps imaging a a house in which they might live – someday.

As at the other foundling hospitals he had introduced himself as an interested benefactor. He was escorted around the building by a woman claiming charge for the children and their care, moving through dining halls and common areas and into long cavernous rooms with small bared windows emitting dim light and tiny beds lined up along two sides. Unsmiling women delivered brisk care to silent youngsters lying in or leaning against the side of their enclosures staring at him with empty eyes, fists filling small rounded mouths. He didn’t know if they were too weak to cry from lack of food or illness or had abandoned the effort because no one ever answered their cries. An unsmiling woman explained to him that these children – fortunate to be taken into their care - were the bastard byproducts of their whorish mothers – women who spread their legs, willing or not, without benefit of marriage. He wondered if she expected these babies to stand and salute as she passed by while explaining their condemnation to hell for their mother’s sins - unbaptized and damned. He had stared at her and she smiled and nodded her head, thinking he was also horrified at their unsanctified state. He suppressed the impulse to wrap his hands around her neck.

He heard soft footsteps along the wooden walkway leading from the street to the dock. A woman. He turned his head to watch the approaching figure, long skirts lifting gently in the evening’s breeze, the scent of lavender and rosehips drifting to him.

‘Good evening Monsieur Grimaud,’ said a soft feminine voice. He watched as she drew closer, her face and figure emerging from the shadows and into the circled light of the lantern.

‘Good evening Henriette,’ he replied, standing as she approached. ‘You should not be out alone on the street. There is too much unrest, and no one knows their enemy.’ As though to make his point, a sudden burst of gun fire was heard closer than expected. Lucien took the woman’s arm and pulled her behind him as he stepped forward listening carefully.

‘Otherwise, it is a fine evening for a stroll,’ he said drily and gestured to the barrel for her to sit. She came closer to him, the moonlight washing over her pale skin and dark blonde hair.

‘Are you alone sir?’ she asked, ‘perhaps I have interrupted some reflection.’ He smiled down at her - she looked pretty in the filtered light and he let his eyes drift over her face and bodice, down the length of her and back to her questioning eyes.

‘No – you have not disturbed me,’ he replied. Encouraged, she came closer to stand next to him and for a moment they stood silently watching the dark water and listening to the sounds of rebellion. She smiled at him, ‘shall I leave you to your meditations or would you like company?’

He looked at the water and then turned to her and smiled, ‘you flatter me lady, but I would be a poor companion tonight.’

‘Perhaps I can help improve your mood,’ she said laying her hand on his arm. ‘You have been here for more than a week – alone.’ He studied her for a moment and turned back to the river. The river flowed past him, silent and timeless, a peaceful contrast to the unremitting din of clashing soldiers and citizen mobs that moved through the streets. He stared out at the dark river watching the moonlight shine on its rippling surface imaging he could see shapes of children’s heads drifting just below the surface of the moving water. He had been right to insist his wife stay away from the hazardous streets of Paris and these visions. She was not naïve to a dangerous world or the terrible plight of abandoned children – but what he had seen would haunt her.

This was his world – one he knew from his own birth and childhood. The stain of illegitimacy never fades, and humiliation is an enduring blister – regardless of how high a bastard might rise. He was alone with his thoughts about the living hell into which their daughter may have been delivered. Who would condemn their baby to this cruel life? He didn’t know if he should hope for her survival. If she had lived – what would they find? He could not talk of these things with Sophia. She was unshakable in her belief their child was alive and she had one objective– to find their daughter.

He looked down at the woman waiting for his reply. He was not surprised she was here – he had seen her watching him. A pretty face, feminine scents drifting toward him, a world away from grey-stone buildings and children with empty eyes. He imagined it might feel comforting to lie next to her warm body and let her draw his dark mood from him. He shifted his feet restively – a sudden flush of fury surging through him – frustrated with the hopelessness he felt and the lack of directed action he could take. He felt her press against his arm, fingers trailing along his hand. She wanted him regardless of his mood - it wouldn’t be the first time a man took her with a need driven by anger and not pleasure, pinning her with his body to the ground, or a wall or over a table while groping her soft flesh and plundering her body - abusing her instead of the guilty. He looked at her from under hooded eyes, his chiseled face segmented by the moonlight. She met his dark gaze with some uncertainty – no doubt he looked troubled to her tonight and possibly dangerous. In past days he had not been known to be abusive to women – whether or not they were whores. She would take the risk – he had also been known to be generous. He looked away from her.

Footsteps sounded on the walkway and a man emerged from the darkness, the glow of his cigar a tiny yellow marker in the gloom.

‘M Grimaud – apologies, I did not see you here,’ said the dock worker cordially, ‘I am intruding.’ He nodded to the woman, turning to leave them alone on the dark dock.

‘No,’ said Lucien, grinding out his cigar stub. ‘I am due elsewhere.’ He smiled at Henriette, gently removing her hand and turned to the man. 

‘See her safely returned?’ he asked but it was not a question. The man nodded, and Lucien walked away. 

>>

Lucien stood and walked to the window, staring out at the street below. It was growing late, and businesses were closing in preparation for another night of unrest. A few barges had slipped past the blockades and were unloading their cargo, the wagon teams waiting on the street. Men were moving towards the taverns, for drink, food, a game of cards and a woman.

Suddenly he braced his hands against the window frame leaning forward, face against the window pane following a figure walking down the street. He sucked in his breath, ‘what the hell…’ he murmured and then he was striding to the door, running down the stairs and into the street.

He quickly threaded his way through the traffic to catch and keep the woman in his sight. Men were turning to look at her and offering suggestions as to what she might do for them or what they could do for her. He hurried to get closer to her and as he did men looked toward him at his approach. He shook his head slightly and they moved off abruptly. He followed her – what the hell was she doing here?

She stopped in front of a tavern, hesitating and then, gathering her cloak around her as though it was made of steel and not wool – she walked to the door and entered. He groaned – she was going into one of the most disreputable drinking establishments on the street – with plenty of rough and drunken men already in there who would not waste a second before accosting her and dragging her up to the rooms on the second floor – he should know because half of his men were probably already inside and drunk. They would not be happy at his interference. Dammit! He threw open the door and stepped into the noisy and smoky room.  


She was well inside and looking around, several men already standing, pushing at each other challenging who would get to her first. He shouldered through the crowd, walking directly to her, staring down these men with dark menacing eyes. They hesitated. She had not yet seen him.

He grasped her arm and pulled her up against him, ’you will come with me – now,’ he spoke low and firmly into her ear, turned and headed for the door. She stumbled after him, leaning back in resistance and emitting sounds of resentment and shock from her wide-open astonished mouth.

‘Bring her back when you are finished Grimaud,’ there came a deep grumble from the crowd as he dragged her behind him.

Outside he continued towing her down the street, men turning to laugh and calling encouragement to him, until he got to his office steps and up the stairs. Once inside, he released her, and she stumbled after him. ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded. She caught her balance and stared at him blue eyes wide with surprise. ‘Answer me!’ he snapped at her and her eyes flared at him in response. That’s better he thought, ‘what are you doing here?’

Constance D’Artagnan stared at him in amazement. She knew he lived – but had not seen him in many years. Time rushed backward to terrible remembrances of unrest, fighting, and fire. He looked different, older, and yet the same - a strong masculine face, the lines around his dark eyes and wolfish mouth a little deeper. He was a tall strongly muscled man with a deceptive stillness and a graceful elegance to his movements, a powerful magnetic presence swirling around him. It was unforgettable, and she had felt it once before, turning in response to see a cloaked and injured man behind her.

She had offered him her help. He had decided not to kill her.

He watched her as memories rolled across her face. Abruptly, she sat down and looked up at him. He was leaning against his desk, arms crossed over his chest, his face unsmiling, eyes stern with golden sparks firing at her.

She looked at him, hesitating – he said sternly, ‘You took a terrible risk coming here. I can only surmise that it was of great importance to you. You will answer me - what are you doing here?’ he repeated. 

‘Looking for….,’ she replied, ‘something...’ her voice drifted off and she stared down frowning as she shifted her feet. For a moment he thought she looked slightly embarrassed. He was losing patience.

He tried again- firmly, ‘what…’ but got no further. She interrupted him, muttering indistinctly and still looking at her feet. ‘It’s very hard to find …the blockades,’ she waved her hand in a helpless gesture.

‘WHAT?’ he practically shouted at her, ‘I cannot understand….’

‘MELONS!’ she cried out startling him. 

‘I wanted a melon,’ she said, a note of petulance creeping into her voice. 

‘You are down here looking for fruit?’ his voice rose a half octave on a note of incredulity. She frowned and pursed her lips in annoyance. ‘Yes – fruit!’ she was defensive – and louder.

‘I heard there are rivermen who get past the barricades and I could find it here,’ she raised her head to glare at him. It hadn’t seemed ridiculous a few hours ago. He stared at her. She was looking for smugglers?

‘You are married,’ she said abruptly. Startled again by the sudden change in direction, he nodded, ‘yes.’

‘I think you have children,’ she continued. He nodded again answering automatically, ‘three daughters and a son, twins – as was she and her brother.’ Constance nodded – she remembered.

‘She always said she wanted a large family. I suppose to make up for her own,’ she said, ‘yours too I would imagine.’

‘About the fruit,’ he regrouped trying to get her back to the present problem. She looked at him in surprise, ‘is there some here to be had?’ her eyes brightened with hope.

‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘Why were you in the tavern?’ he asked curiously.

She frowned at him, ‘I have reason to believe these things are sold there.’

‘Fruit is now sold in taverns?’ he asked widening his eyes in mock amazement, ‘what else? Ladies undergarments?’

She scowled at him, ‘no! Not quite like that. I didn’t really…I just wanted to….,’ she said weakly, looked at him quickly and then away. He barely controlled his amusement or his anger. This was a poor time for her to be so foolish.

‘I heard that things were sold there,’ she insisted.

‘Like melons,’ his mouth curled with sarcasm. ‘You were planning to ask one of those very large men if he had fruit for sale? Accept his invitation to go upstairs to examine his wares perhaps?’ Now she flushed at his insinuation – but knew he was probably right.

She shrugged and looked away. It had seemed a reasonable idea earlier. It had taken so long to weave through the streets and avoid a confrontation with the roving bands of rebels. She had been frightened but the temptation was too great to not try.

Lucien resisted the impulse to laugh at her. He cleared his throat, ‘does your husband know you are here?’

‘Yes – I mean no – he doesn’t know I am here. He is very busy – the riots – you know,’ her voice trailed away, ‘he is away a great deal.’ Her eyes shifted away from him. Lucien pursed his lips in anger. It was reckless for her to be unaccompanied – hell – even accompanied in this part of town.

A knock at the door and a man entered. He looked curiously at Constance and then to Lucien, who stood hands on hips and said, ‘If du Sable is here – ask him if he has any fruit.’

Constance’s eyes lit up and she leaned toward Lucien, mouthing silently – ‘melons.’ He glared at her and said, ‘see if he has any melons.’ The man glanced at Constance and lifted his brow in amusement. Lucien waved his hand at him irritably and the man grinned and left. Lucien sat down behind his desk, raking his hand through his hair. Silence descended.

‘I have a child,’ she said brightly. He looked up and smiled vaguely at her. ‘Alexander,’ she added, ‘for D’Artagnan’s father.’ He nodded, ‘I congratulate you both,’ he said tonelessly. She shifted under his stern eyes and gazed around the room

‘Was the melon for him?’ he asked wryly. She gave a short laugh, but he saw her blink back tears. ‘The blockades make it difficult…I just wanted something special for him…for my husband,’ her voice faltered. She twisted her skirt in her hands. ‘I know it was foolish to come down here alone.’ He didn’t answer her, drumming his fingers on the desk. Silence fell between them.

‘I heard you went to Eparcy and found your mother.’ He looked up into her open clear blue eyes.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘she lived with us for the remainder of her years.’

‘I am glad to hear that,’ said Constance, her eyes softening a little, ‘for you and her.’ He smiled in thanks. She was quiet.

‘Why are you here?’ she asked curiously, ‘why are you not at the estate with your family?’

It would be easy to say he was here for his business. But for one impulsive moment he thought he might tell her everything. He sat back and studied her. Constance - so much like his wife – intelligent, strong-willed, stubborn, impetuous, compassionate and not easily persuaded to do what was safe. He suddenly wanted to tell her about their child, about his search – although he couldn’t say why.

‘What is it Lucien?’ she asked, her blue eyes huge with questions – and concern. He couldn’t recall if she had ever addressed him by his Christian name. He dropped his eyes and then brought them back to her. ‘What is it?’ she asked again, this time shifting forward in her chair towards him. ‘Can I help?’ she offered, now furrowing her brow wondering at his silence and serious expression. He met her eyes and made his decision.

‘I am searching for our daughter – a child born to Sophia 16 years….’ He told her everything – the annual visit to the cemetery, finding the empty coffin, searching the local villages, the abbey, the nightly searches of whore houses and the streets, Sister Agatha’s letter, the foundling hospitals, the rows of babies with empty eyes….the 13 or more houses where charitable women cared for infants that he had yet to find ….he left nothing out.

Sometime during his story, the door opened, and the man returned, carrying a bag. He placed it on the desk and quietly withdrew.

By the time he had finished he was standing in front of the window looking down at the street. He took a deep breath and turned around – not knowing what he would see on her face.

Constance D’Artagnan was standing up, hands on hips, looking directly at him, her blue eyes both shining and flashing. 

‘You intend to search at all the houses in Paris of the Daughters of Charity,’ she asked him.

‘Yes, ‘ he said, ‘And I intend to find the priest, de Paul and Madame de Marillac and ask them directly.’ She frowned but nodded.

‘I’m coming with you.’


	27. Wild Angels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sixteen years ago Lucien Grimaud watched as Athos shot and killed the woman he loved. Four years later, he learned that she had lived although the child she carried had died. Grimaud embarked upon a war of revenge, culminating in Treville's death and a confrontation with Athos in the passageways under the cathedral. The official report file by the Musketeers listed Grimaud as dead - but he lived. Protected by powerful government officials he resumed his work as a privateer, enriching the royal treasury. Now, he and his wife have discovered that the child, a daughter, lived. He searches for her and answers as to who was responsible.
> 
> While drama unfolds with rebellion throughout Paris, Lucien Grimaud receives assistance from unlikely allies..faces his past and finds redemption in unconditional love.

'As you can see Madame, we are concerned with cleanliness.’ The woman gestured to two girls who were scrubbing the stairs they were ascending. The girls stood up and to the side of the stairway as they passed by – eyes downcast. The woman did not address them.

Constance murmured appreciatively. She liked cleanliness. She glanced back to Lucien, trailing behind them hands clasped behind his back. She noted the girls peek from under lowered eyes and the quick smiles they exchanged as the tall dark handsome and well-dressed man came closer. He nodded politely to them. He had a habit of seeing those others ignored – such as scullery maids. A quick smile came to her as well.

Their little group trooped down the hallway to inspect the bedrooms and the infants who were housed there and then to the kitchens, laundry, work rooms. It was the third day of their search through the Daughters of Charity foundling homes. The houses were scattered all over the city and travel would not have been so complicated if Paris were not in the middle of a rebellion. Lucien had not wanted to take her with him, but she was adamant. His story horrified her and his telling of it had touched her heart. He needed her help – whether he knew it or not.

‘You have your own child to consider,’ he told her sternly, ‘I cannot allow you to take risks with your person in these dangerous times.’ He crossed his arms over his chest and glared down at her.

‘Hmmpf,’ she snorted at him. ‘I have five brothers and a stubborn husband,’ she tapped his crossed arms. ‘Do not think to intimidate me with that stance.’ She continued to give instructions to baby Alexander’s nurse and picked up her shawl.

‘Let’s go,’ she commanded him. He was leaning over the baby’s crib tickling his cheek. She watched a faint smile transform his stern face. The baby reached up a tiny hand to grip his finger, eyes bright and produced a bubble of laughter.

Lucien’s smile widened. ‘Your mother is unmanageable. Try to find a more compliant wife,’ he advised the baby boy who cooed in agreement and laughed again wriggling his little body.

As he helped her into the carriage, he said, ‘you will do as I say,’ he meant as they negotiated the streets, the rebels, the guards, the roadblocks and whatever else they encountered. Mulishly she pursed her lips but nodded in agreement.

It was less difficult than she had anticipated. It seemed he was known to all sides of the conflict. Guards touched their hats to him and unruly men and boys called out his name in boisterous acknowledgement. He had a word for everyone – a turn of phrase or remark that shifted his allegiance as required and the carriage waved past roadblocks and unmolested by roving gangs.

‘You have a magic touch Monsieur,’ she remarked to him. He tapped the side of the carriage. ‘Ducal crest of the de la Croix family is the magic – at least with the guards,’ he said wryly. He grinned at her, ‘my natural charm works on all the others of course.’

‘Vain impudent man,’ she snorted. He laughed, ‘oh yes, I remember – five brothers and one stubborn husband! You are well fortified when men try to be charming.’

‘I should be glad you are not in charge of the embargo,’ he teased her, ‘my boats would never get up river.’ He had beautiful hazel eyes, swirls of brown, green and gold and the lights in his eyes winked at her, ‘no melons for Alexander or the stubborn husband.’ She laughed too.

‘Do you take no side in this conflict?’ she asked him. His eyes darkened, his face turning serious.

‘I have learned that politics can be dangerously unpredictable. Often it does not matter who takes charge for the common folk,’ he said. She remembered the events of years past – personal feuds tangled with political ambition and greed. She ought not to have reminded him.

He looked out the carriage window. ‘But there are too many desperate people – they cannot be ignored forever,’ he said. 'Besides, violence is not good for business,' he said and returned to watching the street for any signs of disturbances.

They had agreed not to concoct an elaborate lie about why they were searching for a baby lost over 16 years earlier. They appeared to be well dressed and noble of some variety and distant relatives. Other details would be left vague. There was a legacy and they were hoping to find the child. They suggested the family would consider a substantial contribution. In the end it hadn’t been important. There were simply too many abandoned babies, no records, and not enough Daughters of Charity and their homes to care about the stories of their infant charges. But the money was of interest.

He let her take charge of these visits. He walked behind them as they talked and wandered through rooms staffed with charitably minded women and wet nurses. He took in the worn quality of furnishings, thin blankets and threadbare linens. Not every room had a fire laid to take the chill from the cold air. The rooms were crowded with cots. There was an atmosphere of industry, but little warmth of spirit – no soft feminine voices or cuddling. He remembered his wife holding their tiny babes – singing and swaying to the music of baby sounds and tinkling laughter in sunny rooms.

They learned nothing of value. More than half the foundlings died within three years. Those who survived were sent to the orphanages - where another half died within another three years. There were few records and they encountered no one from that time who remembered a baby from the abbey.

As he handed her down from the carriage he said, ‘this day is the last – it is pointless to go to the remaining. We will only hear the same as we have already heard.’  
Constance heard both the hopelessness and the anger in his voice. ‘We should try,’ she urged him, ‘one never knows…’

‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘You have done enough, and your child needs you.’ There was finality in his voice. She crossed her arms over her bosom and pursed her mouth. He laughed and tapped her arms, ‘do not try to intimidate me Madame,’ he teased. She tsked at him and impulsively clasped his hand between her two.

‘There may be no more to be learned – but she may not be hopelessly lost to you. I pray, somehow, that your paths will cross,’ she looked earnestly up into his startled face. ‘Lucien, I will pray every day for such a reunion.’

He watched her walk into her home and cross in front of the window to take the baby from the nurse and hold the child up, laughing and kissing his cheeks, his baby arms wind milling as he squealed and laughed in return. He wondered if his mother had ever held him thus and when she had abandoned hope for her life – and his.

He stepped back into the carriage. He had one more stop to make.

>>

The priest received him in the library. He was a mid-sized man, strong hands and a vague smile. He looked at the tall man and did not flinch at his dark eyes and what lurked beneath. He had seen worse and he was curious. He waved the man to a chair and sat opposite. He folded his hands in his lap and waited.

Lucien looked around the room and the books lined along the shelves. He looked back to the priest, ‘all holy texts of some variety?’ he asked. The priest inclined his head slightly and smiled. ‘No novels fancied by the ladies,’ he said. Lucien smiled too.

The door opened, and a woman of middle years entered quietly. The men stood as she closed the door behind her and moved silently across the room.

‘May I introduce Madame de Marillac,’ said the priest, ‘Madame - Monsieur Grimaud.’ She was not a beautiful woman, her jawline strong, her mouth set in a firm line and a nose more suited to a man – but taken together it was a handsome face with observant intelligent eyes.

‘How can I be of assistance,’ she had a brisk but pleasing voice.

‘I am looking for a child…who I have reason to believe was brought to you or Father de Paul – 16 years ago from Royamount Abbey. I am hoping you may have some memory or record of her.’

‘Sister Agatha was from Royamount Abbey,’ said Madame de Marillac. Lucien’s pulse quickened – was there a connection here?

‘Yes,’ he said, looking at her intently. ‘You knew her?’

Madame de Marillac smiled and glanced at the priest, ‘everyone knew her,’ she furrowed her brow, ‘Royamount Abbey,’ she murmured, looking pensive.  
She glanced at Father de Paul again and back to him. ‘I can look through some old record books. They are unreliable and sparse – but I can look.’ She stood to leave. He could scarcely breath. ‘I would be grateful Madame.’

He turned back to the priest who was watching him intently. ‘You are her father Monsieur Grimaud,’ he stated.

Lucien hesitated, ‘yes,’ he answered. Would that make a difference to the priest and woman in helping him? He rubbed his forehead. He was tired of trying to anticipate how he might influence any outcome.

‘Not present when the child was born.’ Another question that was a statement.

‘No.’

‘The mother?’

‘Now my wife for the past 12 years.’ The priest leaned back in his chair, ‘ah,’ he breathed as though that explained everything to him.

The priest paused for a long moment, – not taking his eyes from the man across from him. Then he leaned forward and pointed his finger at him,’ confession is good for the soul,’ he smiled and waved a hand, ‘or so I have been told.’ He laughed – he was famous for long sermons extolling the virtues of daily confession. Now he looked expectantly at this man who seemed thoroughly nonplussed at the idea of confession. The priest smiled.

‘Start at the beginning,’ he suggested pleasantly and settled back in his chair.

Lucien sat very still, dark eyes unreadable, a stony countenance shielding his secrets. The priest waited patiently. And for reasons probably not completely understood by himself - but everything to do with a good woman's prayers for him and his child - he started to talk.

‘My mother was taken and abused by … as he talked, he moved - shifting in the chair, sitting back, leaning forward with elbows balanced on his knees, standing and walking to the windows, pacing around the room, sitting down again. He raked his hands through his hair, gestured angrily, voice hard with outrage, soft with love, at times laughing, at others closer to tears. Finally – he fell silent. They sat together quietly for a moment.

‘You carry a great deal of guilt,’ said the priest.

‘I have done…things,’ said the man. The priest shrugged, ‘who has not?’ The man shook his head.

‘You have searched for your child in the worst of places,’ observed the priest, ‘helped by thieves and smugglers, whores, perhaps even killers and all manner of bad men.’ The man frowned and looked uncertainly at the priest.

‘Who else to know the secret corners of hell and where the devil hides?’ asked the priest, ‘do you imagine the armies of God to be filled only with those of tender pure natures and beatific smiles to confront the evils of this world?’

‘If your daughter is found in a hell on earth – you will know how to free her. I have no doubt you will love her, regardless of her sins, and accept her,’ he leaned toward Lucien, ‘I shall pray sir, that she will know her good fortune to have such a father.’

The priest sat back in his chair studying his hands. ‘Are you ready to hear my confession?’ Lucien looked surprised, ‘I didn’t realize that was done.’

‘It isn’t,’ said Father de Paul. ‘But it would be right for you to hear mine.’ His gentle eyes bored into Lucien – who frowned and was puzzled. He settled into his chair and lifted a hand.

‘Start at the beginning…’ he said wrily and a curious smile.

>>>

He threw open the door and stalked into the room. He unbuckled his belt and tossed his sword and pistol onto his desk. He stood for a moment, hands on hips scowling at nothing and then knelt by the brazier and lit the fire – watching the sparks catch the wood and flare into flames.

He should have known his past would catch up to him. How would he tell her what the priest and the woman had told him? The truth would destroy their lives. It wouldn’t matter that it could never have been foreseen. It had happened. That would be enough.

The room was darkening in the early evening. He pulled a hand through his hair and paused – listening. He whirled around. He had forgotten how silently she could move.

‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded. ‘How did you get here? He was angry – it was dangerous to be in Paris.

Sophia glided toward him from the far shadows of the room, ‘it is one thing to be apart from you when you are at sea and a different matter entirely when you are a day’s ride away,’ she murmured as she came closer. The iridescence in her blue eyes winked at him mischievously. He was not amused.

‘It was a poor idea to travel here,’ he said sternly, ‘there is chaos in the streets and everyone is suspect.’ The anger that had started earlier was now pounding mercilessly in his head.

She stopped and was silent. ‘I thought you might miss me,’ she said simply.

‘I am not fit company tonight,’ he did not look at her, pacing to the window, ‘go to bed,’ he ordered abruptly. ‘We will talk in the morning.’ He turned away from her and strode to the window. He did not look at her.

What had happened? She studied his stiffened posture and walked slowly around him to look into his shadowed face – the hard lines of his jaw and brow, planed cheeks and shaped unyielding mouth. He was frowning. She drew in a breath and let it out slowly. She knew these black moods.

She stepped closer to him. ‘This is my fault, ‘she said softly, ‘I should not have let you come alone.’ She moved towards him and laid a hand gently on his arm.

‘It has been too difficult for you.’ He looked at her hand and stepped back. ‘No,’ she whispered, moving with him, ‘you must not retreat from me. I place no conditions Lucien.’

Cool fingers slid along his jaw and across his lips. She lay her palm against his stony face and he closed his haunted eyes to her kiss. There it was – the red flicker of what could rule him. We think our demons slumber, cautioned Sister Agatha, but they do not – always one eye open and lurking. When our fear rises we are weakened, and they beckon us to do their bidding.

‘Lucien,’ she laid her hands against his chest, ‘I am not afraid of these moods. Do not turn away from me.’ He was silent, motionless under her hand. Her blue eyes darkened.

‘What is it you fear?’ she asked softly, her hands moving up to his arms to hold him. His eyes shifted restlessly around the room refusing to look at her.

‘You think I do not know you,’ she was running her hands up and down his arms and felt a shudder run through him. She pulled him toward her, ‘you fear your sins - that you are forever corrupted and taint those you love,’ she stroked his face, ‘I am not afraid.’

She would not use empty banalities of circumstance and intent to smooth over the surface blemishes. _You were only a child, no one could have done more, they used you, it’s what you had to do…. _He deserved better than that from her – no platitudes - only merciless truth.__

____

____

‘You have lied and stolen…’ she said softly leaning up on her toes to touch her lips to his neck, her breath warm on his skin. He closed his eyes and twisted his mouth, ‘yes,’ he breathed. He dipped his head to rest his brow against hers.

‘And killed...’ she pushed his tunic from his shoulders and down his arms until it fell to the floor. She pulled his shirt from his trousers and slipped her hands up and across his stomach and broad chest – he felt like marble to her touch – smooth and hard, ‘a savage man…’

His skin was hot, his muscles jumped under her fingers. He sucked in his breath and held his arms stiffly at his side. He wanted to crush her to him – he wanted to shove her away.

‘The bastard son of a whore...’ she stroked his tense shoulders. Fire flashed from his black eyes, ‘yes,’ he growled at her, ‘yes.’

‘I love you,’ she breathed into him, ‘I love all of you,’ he took her by the arms. ’Sophia….’ he muttered.

‘I am here,’ she whispered and pulled the opening of his shirt wider to run her tongue over his chest, her cool lips against his heated skin.

'You belong to me - all of you.' She gripped his shirt at its opening and yanked hard, ripping it in half - it dropped from his shoulders down his arms to the floor. She was already pulling at his trousers – buttons scattering and pinging to the floor.

‘Sophie…’ her name was a prayer on his lips. But she had no use for prayers tonight – there was no place in this battle for whispered pleas to an indifferent heaven. She would win this fight with his demons. 'Mine,' she gasped.

He buried his hand in her hair, pulling her head back and brought his punishing mouth to hers, lifting her to the desk and tearing away the laces of her bodice. He lowered his head, his lips moving over her soft flesh. She cried out, holding onto him and digging her fingernails into his skin, arching her back into his mouth and his hands. He raked her skirts upward, his hands scalding her thighs.

‘Now – I want you now,’ she was breathless, gripping his arms to steady herself, ‘you are mine.’ With a low moan he dragged her hips to him, bracing her with his arms, shaking uncontrollably with a hammering need roaring in his head and drove himself into her unyielding strength and pitiless love –his cries choking as his tears mingled with hers – and found his redemption.

>>

He lay still watching shadows drift across the wall. Clouds were moving across the moon, creating random patterns of pearly white and shades of dark on the wall across from the window. They were curious to his partially conscious mind – a mysterious message.

He held her naked body against him, curled around her protectively. She was still sleeping, her soft form rising and falling under his arm. She was dreaming, gently moving her head against his chest or stretching a leg. Her toes tickled his shins. They drifted together in a sated quiet. She stirred.

‘I can hear you thinking,’ she murmured. He nuzzled her neck, ‘what does that sound like?’ he asked, and she could feel his smile against her skin.

‘Great sounds of clanging and banging in a large chamber,’ she turned over in his arms to snuggle against him. ‘Lots of noise – I make little sense of it,’ she murmured. He chuckled.

‘I was wondering if you brought any of my shirts with you,’ he asked, ‘since you are bent on destroying my wardrobe.’ She giggled. He pushed her hair back and lifted her chin to look at her.

‘Sophia…’ she lay her fingers against his lips. ‘You are not a monster – I trust you with my love and my life. There will be no other.’

‘I have done…’

‘I know what you have done. I know what I have done and what others have done. I am not wrong about you Lucien.’

‘She may not see me that way.’

‘She may not see either of us that way. Then she is still a child and knows nothing of the world if she believes simple notions of good or evil and honor.’

She raised herself on one elbow and looked down at him, stroking his face, ‘you must trust me on this…’

He settled her next to him and she stretched out against him and was soon asleep, her dark hair falling across his arm and spreading over the pillows and bed. He pulled covers over them and stared again at the patterns of light and dark flickering on the wall. Fate or chance or God had given this woman to him – a Valkyrie warrior – who had chosen him to live – and to love.

He didn’t know - in the final calculations of his life - how it might be balanced with good or evil, honor or dishonor. If she were there for the reckoning she would set her foot on the scale, shaking her fist and challenging the heavens to do it any better against all that had tried to break them.


	28. An Audience with the Queen of France

**Author: Mordaunt**

_But who can leave to look on Venus’ face,_  
 _Or yieldeth not to Juno’s high estate ?_  
 _What wit so wise as gives not Pallas place?_  
 _These virtues rare each God did yield a mate;_  
 _Save her alone, who yet on earth doth reign,_  
 _Whose beauty’s string no God can well distraine_.

_(Edward de Vere, Earl of Oxford, 1576, The Paradise of Dainty Devices, XVII: Reason and Affection)_

 

 

As soon as the Prime Minister leaves the Palais Royal escorted by M. de Thierry and M. de Bragelonne, Captain D’ Artangan and his two men, M. Marchal and M. de Rohan are led into the Queen’s oratory by M. Béringhen (1), the King’s first _valet de chambre_. The room is lavishly furnished with ornate rugs, and tapestries on every wall depicting the life of the Virgin Mary. In the spacious alcove above the altar, framed in gold, hangs a painting of the Immaculate Conception of the Virgin by Señor Velasquez, a wedding gift from King Philip, the Queen’s brother (2). Captain d’ Artagnan and his two men bow deeply removing their hats: “Your Majesty!”

 

It is the first time M. Marchal sees his Queen this close. She looks young, the skin around her large blue eyes uncreased, her soft pale cheeks slightly blushed.  She wears a magnificent dark blue velvet dress embroidered with small golden fleurs de lys, its deep color contrasting with her luscious auburn hair, and the pallor of her much celebrated delicate, slender hands (3). She keeps those hands on her hips as they enter, and bites the edge of her soft rounded lips. It occurs to M. Marchal that he has never seen his Queen this angry before, either.

 

“You are late!” she exclaims but immediately restrains herself, attempting to sound less irate and impatient. If half the rumors M. Marchal heard were true, Her Majesty had quite a trying day already, which is not coming to an end. “Is the Prime Minister safely out of the palace, Captain?”

 

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the Captain responds, “with M. le Prince’s coach as agreed and with a very small escort as he requested.”

 

The Queen paces in the room, her imperious tone hardly masking her deep concern, “On that last thing… I could not persuade him otherwise. I was hoping you would…”

 

“He is a determined man, Your Majesty.” Captain d’ Artagnan says, and adds in a gentler tone: “he claims he is better now at target shooting than he used to be…”

 

The Queen stops her pacing, her frown gone, an impish glimmer of disbelief in her blue eyes, and the beginning of a smile at the edge of her lips. The Captain’s eyes reciprocate although his demeanor remains somber as he stands upright facing his Queen. Perhaps it is true what they say, M. Marchal thinks, about the old friendship between those two.

 

“How small an escort, Captain? Which of your men did you choose for the task?”

 

“Two men, Your Majesty. M.de Thierry, whom your Majesty knows well…”

 

The Queen smiles a cryptic smile. “Of course,” she says, clearly satisfied. “I have every confidence in M. de Thierry.”

 

“…and M. de Bragelonne…”

 

At the sound of the name the Queen’s tone changes immediately. “Bragelonne!” she exclaims, clearly unable to suppress her surprise. “Captain, have you lost your mind?”

 

The Captain was prepared for this moment. “He is the aide-de-camp of General du Vallon, Your Majesty. He comes highly recommended. I need an officer from one of M. le Prince’s regiments to make our story believable: we pretend to be delivering that carriage to His Highness at the front…”

 

If this was not the Queen of France, M. Marchal reckons, she would have attacked the Captain right where he stood with those delicate pale hands of hers. But she keeps them folded before her chest, and walks up to the Captain, her tone menacing: “Bragelonne! You entrusted the Prime Minister’s life to the son of…”

 

“The Vicomte de Bragelonne is a brave and loyal soldier,” Captain d’ Artagnan interjects, resolute and unflappable despite the Queen’s fury. “I choose my men based on merit, Your Majesty.”

 

“Well, I may have something to say about that…” her Majesty retorts irate, but pauses immediately, noticing that M. de Rohan stands behind his Captain. The young Musketeer bows facing the disapproving royal gaze. He seems unaffected, M. Marchal observes, by the royal displeasure. What would it be like, M. Marchal wonders, to carry the dark heritage of a father like the Comte de Rochefort all your life?

 

The Queen lowers her gaze silently accepting the M. de Rohan’s respectful gesture. “Ah, M. Marchal!” she says, turning to him now, her tone playful and teasing.  “Still not a Musketeer, I see? Well perhaps that might change by the end of this infernal night …” M. Marchal bows as well. It is the King who gives commissions to the Musketeers, he thinks, but it flatters him that the Queen considers him enough to address him in this manner.

 

“Are you ready for the rest Captain?” the Queen inquires, her tone again aloof and businesslike.

 

“Yes, Your Majesty. We will use a small plain coach this time. We leave at midnight. We exit the city from the gate of St. Honoré, where the guard is less organized. Another storm is expected. If we are lucky, it will add to the confusion….”

 

“No one must suspect anything, Captain.” The Queen demands. “Nothing in mine or His Majesty’s planned activities for this evening must be altered.” She turns now addressing both M. de Rohan and M. Marchal: “I rely on your loyalty and discretion, Messieurs. His Majesty’s life depends on it!”

 

The two young men bow deeply and Captain d’ Artagnan declares: “M. de Rohan and M. Marchal are two of my most trusted men, Your Majesty. Their loyalty and discretion have been proven on many occasions.”

 

The Queen nods with a satisfied smile. “Then go, Captain. Resume your regular duties here as His Majesty and I shall resume Ours. Return at midnight as planned.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Béringhen: Henry de Béringhen (1603-1692) was the first valet de chambre to King Louis XIV before becoming a royal equerry. Louis XIV had more than one valet du chambre (e.g., M. Laporte.) Here I follow Dumas in the way I present these officers of King Louis XIV. 
> 
> (2) Diego Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez (baptized June 6, 1599 – August 6, 1660) Spanish baroque painter, leading artist in the court of King Philip IV (Anne’s brother) and one of the most important painters in the period known as the Spanish Golden Age. There is indeed a painting of the Immaculate conception of the Virgin Mary. It is *not* in France and the story of the paining here is entirely made up! It is in the National Gallery (London.) I chose it because, I love Velasquez and this painting!
> 
> (3) The description of the dress is inspired by an actual painting of Anne of Austria (the last grand portrait of the Queen) by Charles Beaubrun.


	29. To Serve a Queen, To Save a King

**Author: Mordaunt**

 

_Wondrous the battle and it grows faster yet;_

_(Song of Roland,1040-1115, 125: line 1661, Transl. Dorothy Sayers)_

 

Raoul decides the dead man’s horse should remain outside the city walls, in case it is recognized. He removes his jerkin and doublet alongside any accoutrements that identify him as an officer, keeping his cloak, the Hauteclere, and the loaded pistols from the dead man’s saddle. He enters the city from the Richelieu Gate, instead of St. Honoré, where someone may remember him escorting the coach with which the Prime Minister escaped. He finds the city still ablaze with the fervor of the revolt. Despite the thunderstorm and the pouring rain, the streets are full of people, militias, and groups of rioters.  

The guard at the Richelieu Gate is organized with almost military discipline. He gives his old title and name: “Principe Andrea Morosini (1).” He feigns a friendly smile and a Venetian accent. “I am a visitor from Venice, Signore! I am come to see if Parisian ladies compare to our Venetian beauties!”

 “Prince, eh? And where is your horse…prince?” asks one of the guards.

 Raoul shrugs, the same innocent smile on his lips. “Lost…at dice… at Montmartre…” (2)

The guards laugh: “Perhaps your luck with women will be better than your luck with the dice!”

Raoul laughs as well. “I am always lucky with women!” he declares with the kind of naïve ostentatious arrogance he has observed among his older cousins.

“Always lucky, eh?” the guard in charge is not at all satisfied. He approaches Raoul, pistol in hand. “Besides your fancy sword, Monsieur, you do not look like a prince…”

Raoul shrugs again, a sly glint in his eyes, his accent changed to pure French. “What if I am not?” he whispers.

“I see…?” says the guard.

“I have important business and you seem to need all the help you can get here…” he continues, his tone confidential. “I would not be eager to return to Paris otherwise… if you get my meaning, Monsieur.” As he speaks he makes sure he opens his cloak enough to let the guard see he is armed.

“I do indeed. We need every man who can fight, every available pistol…” the guard retorts. He still sounds suspicious.  

“Is it true what they say,” Raoul whispers in a more conspiratorial tone, “that Nebuchadnezzar has left the city?”

“ _Chut!_ ” exclaims the guard, looking around, worried. “How do you know this?” He stops himself as if in fear of revealing or confirming more.

“Something I heard at Rouen…” Raoul shrugs. The Prime Minister’s estate is at Rouen and that is where he has escaped. Raoul assumes the guard knows.

“Is that where you come from then? Rouen?” The guard sounds anxious.

“Does it matter?” Raoul replies in the same nonchalant manner. “It is Paris that concerns me. As it should concern you. As it concerns M. the Coadjutor…”

“M. the Coadjutor…?” the guard sounds surprised to hear the name from this young man’s lips.

“Who else? He is expecting the news I bring…” Raoul’s tone is now slightly menacing. 

“…from Rouen?” the guard ventures.  

“Or elsewhere,” Raoul continues now feigning impatience. “I am certain he will not appreciate this delay… He has paid good money…Monsieur…Monsieur?”

“Cosson…” the guard replies. “Monsieur Cosson! Loyal to the Fronde and to M. the Coadjutor!” he exclaims letting Raoul pass through the gate. 

“M. Cosson,” Raoul acknowledges him, as he hurries into the city, “I will make sure your loyalty is rewarded! Hail to the Fronde!” he cries.

“And Death to the Prime Minister!” the guard retorts.

 

Raoul moves along the Rue de Richelieu towards the Palais Royal. It is almost midnight. At a couple of street-corners he finds himself surrounded by armed citizen militias, and he joins them chanting “hail to the Fronde” and “death to the Prime Minister.” It feels disquieting, that these are his father’s allies. In a way, at least. He wonders what his father would think had he witnessed all this. But then again, Raoul also recalls the emaciated men and women shouting “we starve” and the little children flinging stones at the armed Royal Guard earlier in the day. He suddenly stops. Right there, in front of Madame de Guémenée’s (3) mansion, a few blocks away from the palace, stands the coach of the man Raoul just pretended to be working for: M. de Gondi, the Coadjutor! He remembers M. de Guiche confiding about M. de Gondi’s particular appreciation of the lady’s many charms.

Raoul carefully walks up to the coach to confirm the coat of arms on the door and the coachman’s livery. Such an examination would not have been easy at all but the coachman is snoring, fast asleep on the box. On a whim, Raoul jumps into the carriage, and pulls at the check string: “To the Palais Royal!” he orders, slightly altering his voice to make it sound deeper.  

Startled and embarrassed to be caught sleeping, the coachman drives as fast as possible towards the palace. The Swiss guards let the coach pass, no questions asked. It has been a day of difficult negotiations between the Queen and M. the Coadjutor, so this is clearly another urgent and important meeting. The coach is led to the main portico. It is at that moment that the coachman realizes for the first time that there are no footmen standing at the back. But he also assumes that on a day like this, his master might not be so mindful of protocol. He prepares to descend and open the door but is stopped by the barrel of a pistol pointing directly at his head. “Do not speak, do not cry out, or you are a dead man,” a voice utters. It is not his master’s voice but that of a young man, whose tone and expression indicate this is no idle threat.

 

“What are you doing there?” calls one of a pair of patrolling Musketeers. Raoul realizes he had not thought about this part of his plan at all. Perhaps he can explain this to Captain d’ Artagnan’s men before he gets arrested? He is fortunate. The second of the pair is simply a Musketeer recruit; a recruit Raoul knows very well: M. Marchal.

“ _Sang dieu_! ” M. Marchal exclaims. "Vicomte de Bragelonne?”

“We have no time M. Marchal,” Raoul retorts. “I must speak to the Captain immediately! It is urgent! This man here needs to be kept somewhere safe!” he adds, pointing at the coachman.

"Consider it done!” the Musketeer exclaims also, now recognizing the young officer who rode with them earlier in the morning. “M. Marchal can take you to the Captain, Vicomte!”

 

*****

 

“This way!” M. Marchal exclaims. They reach a dark servant’s corridor. M. Marchal knocks against the plain paneled wall twice and it opens to reveal a small trapdoor. The man holding a candle at the opening is M. de Laporte (4) the King’s second _valet de chambre_ and one of the Queen’s most loyal old servants. It is to the King’s private apartments that they are taken.

The Queen is there, as well as Captain d’ Artagnan, M. de Rohan, and M. de Comminges. Standing in his shirtsleeves, in the middle of the room is a young man, M. de Rohan’s age, no more than one or two years older than Raoul. Even in that plain outfit, in the dim candlelight, it is clear who he is. He shines. Draws eyes. He has inherited his mother’s deep blue eyes but little else. A careful and knowledgeable observer would notice it immediately. Faceted like a diamond catching the light, behind his majestic stillness, there is another face, mischievous, audacious, and slightly reckless: the face of his father.

“M. Marchal! What is this?” Captain d’ Artagnan says, surprised by the interruption.

“Forgive me, your Majesties, Captain, M. de Comminges!” M. Marchal says. “There have been some developments…” Raoul appears behind him also, coming through the trapdoor.

“Vicomte de Bragelonne!” the Captain says! “What…”

Before he even utters the question, M. de Comminges dashes towards Raoul, his pistol drawn. “You are under arrest Monsieur, accused of assisting the escape of the Duc de Beaufort!” Raoul has no time to respond. He finds himself in the tight grip of the Queen’s Lieutenant General. “You will follow me now to the Bastille!” 

“This is absurd!” M. Marchal interjects completely forgetting that he is in the presence not just of his Captain, but also of both his King and Queen.

“M. de Comminges!” the Captain exclaims. “Stop immediately! M. de Bragelonne is one of my men in the service of Her Majesty!”

“Nonsense!” M. de Comminges insists." He is the son of the man, who we suspect masterminded the escape of the Duc de Beaufort from Vincennes, alongside his wife, this man’s mother! She is notorious. A woman known for her nefarious activities and connections!”

“They did it!” Raoul thinks, “the Duc has escaped!” He manages to appear unaffected, focusing on battling against the clutches of M. de Comminges. 

“That does not make him guilty, Monsieur!” the Captain proclaims. “I demand you release my officer!”

“M. de Comminges,” the Queen interjects now. “Your loyalty is much appreciated, but you must listen to Captain d’ Artagnan!”

“Your Majesty,” M. de Comminges says, slightly lowering his voice, “this man’s mere presence in this room is a danger to His Majesty and to yourself! He is a Frondeur. He frequents the apartments of Monsieur Scarron!”

“So does everyone who wants to be anyone in Paris!” It is the King now who intervenes. “I too would frequent M. Scarron’s apartments, Monsieur, if I could leave this palace! I hope you do not think me a Frondeur! M. de Comminges, let M. de Bragelonne go! It is an order! Stand back!”

M. de Comminges withdraws, releasing Raoul from his grip, and placing his pistol back in his belt.

“You have some news, for Us Vicomte?” the King continues, ignoring the fury of M. de Comminges.

Raoul bows. This is exactly what he wanted to achieve by enlisting himself on the side of Queen and Prime Minister. This is exactly where he was hoping to be. “Your Majesty,” he says, “I have news that may alter your current plans…”

“Before you explain this, Vicomte,” the King says, having noted his mother’s concerned gaze, “you must inform Us about the fate of Our beloved Prime Minister!”

Raoul quickly recounts their escape from St. Honoré and the events that followed.

“Is the Prime Minister safe?” the Queen asks unable to mask her quivering voice.

“I do not know, Your Majesty,” Raoul replies, “for I remained behind to fight our pursuers, while M. de Thierry attempted to stop the Prime Minister’s carriage. But I have every confidence that M. de Thierry was successful. And the Prime Minister gave quite a fight himself!”

“Oh, I recognize that reckless madman!” Captain d’ Artagnan thinks, “fighting as if he is still a twenty-year-old Musketeer!” He says nothing, but he cannot suppress a smile, which the Queen notices. She smiles too, the two of them sharing the same thought.

“Your Majesty,” Raoul continues, “M. de Gondi and M. de Louviéres know that the Prime Minister has escaped. Furthermore, the St. Honoré gate is not a safe exit. It never was…” 

“Would you recommend the Richelieu Gate then, Vicomte?” M. de Rohan interjects. “Perhaps a few of us in disguise can divert the guards’ attention there, enough for the coach to exit that gate…”

The King nods in approval and the Queen seems to agree. “It is a good idea M. de Rohan.” 

“If I may, Your Majesty there maybe another way…” Raoul says, rather timidly, for he has no intention of undermining M. de Rohan.

“Speak, Vicomte,” the King demands.

“Perhaps it is possible not to be stopped at all…” he ventures.

“That cannot happen, Vicomte,” Captain d’ Artagnan interjects. “All coaches are stopped at the gates. They are also stopped by militias in the street.”

“All coaches, except one,” Raoul says.

“Of course!” M. Marchal interjects understanding Raoul’s meaning. “The coach of M. de Gondi! The Coadjutor!” 

“And how does that help us?” M. de Comminges scoffs, still seething with anger.

“M. the Coadjutor’s coach is right outside, Captain,” M. Marchal retorts. “M. de Bragelonne arrived in it. We even have the coachman, in all his livery!”

“Explain yourself, Vicomte!” the Queen orders.

“Your Majesty,” Raoul blushes for he is not sure how to explain that he stole M. the Coadjutor’s coach on a whim. “I happened upon it on my way here… and…”

“You intercepted it!” the King interrupts him laughing. “Excellent, Vicomte! An inspired decision indeed!”

Raoul laughs too, and it eases much of the tension in the room. It lasts only a few minutes, however. M. Laporte enters from the trapdoor, much agitated.

 

“Your Majesties!” he exclaims. “Listen!”

In the silence of the room, they can hear something that sounds like thunder in the distance. “It is simply the coming storm,” Captain d’ Artagnan is about to say, but as he listens carefully it is clear that this is something altogether different: People. Thousands of them. “What is this?” he asks.

“The Swiss at the gates can see a great crowd approaching, Captain!” M. Laporte says, his voice trembling with fear. “Thousands of people….”

“Thousands?” M. de Comminges retorts. “We do not have enough men to thwart such an attack!”

“Monsieur,” d’ Artagnan remarks. “Before we do anything that will compromise the safety of Their Majesties, we must find out what these people want…”

“They want to attack Their Majesties!” M. de Comminges replies. “What else? We do not negotiate with these people…” D’ Artagnan understands that it is important for M. de Comminges to prove himself to the King and the Queen, especially after his recent embarrassment. He fears also that any suggestion that they show mercy on the approaching crowd may color him as a Fronde sympathizer, and there is much now that could be used against him, including Constance’s alliances, despite M. de Bragelonne’s best efforts. Besides, he thinks, it will be better for everyone, if M. de Comminges is simply not in this room. “Then get your men at the gate, Monsieur!” he tells the Queen’s Lieutenant General. “My men and I will take care of their Majesties here.” M. de Comminges is happy not only for the opportunity to once again prove himself, but also to leave. Raoul’s presence is an unpleasant reminder of the escape of the Duc de Beaufort, and his failure to arrest the culprits.  

“Philippe!” The Queen exclaims suddenly. “He is in his room!” The quarters of the King’s younger brother are in the other side of the palace.

“Your Majesty,” M. de Rohan proposes, drawing his pistols. “If you agree, I will make sure he is safe, and bring him to our meeting place.”

The Queen bows her head in agreement. “Yes, M. de Rohan. Do so immediately,” she urges him. M. de Rohan may be the son of the man who once was her most vicious enemy but she is well aware of his loyalty and courage, even though she does not admit it.

 “We will exit the palace from the secret door at the eastern side,” Captain d’ Artagnan tells M. de Comminges, who is preparing to leave. “Get M. the Coadjutor’s coach there, and make sure that your defense plan includes distracting the crowd away from that side of the palace!”

“We will make sure Your Majesties leave the Palais Royal safely,” M. de Comminges exclaims bowing to King and Queen on his way out.

Time passes slowly. The rambling sound of the mob is louder now. They are probably at the gate, Captain d’ Artagnan reckons. He places his hand on his pistols as if to assure himself they are there. If they have to fight, they are seriously undermanned. M. Laporte enters again, bringing news from outside.

“Your Majesty! Madame!” he cries. He looks alarmed, disturbed. “They are outside the gates holding candles, and praying. They have been told the King has left Paris, and they are here to make sure their King has not abandoned them!”

“Such a ridiculous notion!” the Queen scoffs. She has never been a friend of the city of Paris or of its citizens. They never welcomed her, and always considered her a foreigner.

“Your Majesty!” Captain d’ Artagnan ventures, well aware of the Queen’s sentiments towards the citizens of Paris. “I recommend that His Majesty complies.”

Anger flashes in her clear blue eyes, and a slight Spanish inflection colors her words. It happens sometimes when she is enraged. “His Majesty will do no such thing! He is not some puppet King, driven by the desires of the dirty mob!”

“Please, Your Majesty,” the Captain’s voice is calm, almost tender. “This is not a mob yet. These are His Majesty’s people. They are not violent. Perhaps we can keep it that way. Appease them rather than incite their fury. What we want is to get Your Majesties safely out of Paris. A riot in the Palais Royal will not help such a plan!”

Perhaps it is the Captain’s tone. Perhaps it is the logic of his argument. Perhaps it is the fact that her son, the King, witnessed his mother admitting her long-held resentment against his subjects. The Queen concedes, still frowning, still irate. “Where do you propose His Majesty sees these people?” she asks. “On the balcony?”

The Captain nods in agreement.

“Captain,” M. Marchal, interjects. “If I may…” He sounds tentative.

“Speak freely, Monsieur!” the King invites him. “This is no time for ceremony and protocols!”

“If I may, Your Majesty,” the young recruit ventures, “the people should see you here…”

“In my private chambers?”

“In your bed, Your Majesty. I know these people. They are not violent, just scared. Show them you understand their fears and they will never abandon you…”

“This is madness,” the Captain interjects although there is truth in M. Marchal’s words.

“Wait, Captain!” the King says. “M. Marchal’s idea is not a bad one…”

“Louis!” It is the first time his Mother addresses him by his name. She sounds worried now, rather than angry. “This is out of the question!”

“M. Laporte!” the King orders, jumping into his bed wearing his clothes, “send a message to the people outside the gate. Tell them their King will be happy to see them, despite the fact they have disturbed his sleep! Madame,” he adds, addressing his mother, who stares at him in disbelief. “You need not be here, if you find it distasteful.”

“I shall remain,” she says.

 

A while later, there is a slight knock on the main door of the King’s bed chamber. “Your Majesty,” M. Laporte announces, “the people of Paris are here to see you!”

About a dozen enter the room, men and women. They enter carefully, almost tiptoeing, the men removing their hats respectfully. They awkwardly bow and curtsy to everyone. “Welcome,” the King says from his bed, his clothes well concealed under the covers. His voice is pleasant and calm. “You find us ready to turn in this evening. Who is your leader?”

A woman steps slowly from the group. She does not look like any of these frightened, bowing people although she keeps her gaze lowered. She looks familiar, d’ Artagnan thinks. Like someone he met a long time ago, her younger face dimly returning to his mind along with a name that lingers at the edges of his memory. There is something familiar about her bearing, the way she walks, her pale skin, her slanted sky-blue eyes, and her long fair hair, elaborately braided and decorated with beads and feathers in the manner of pirates. A look into M. Marchal’s eyes assures the Captain that his recruit knows her well although he says nothing. The woman’s name suddenly returns, and Captain d’ Artagnan almost gasps: Flea! Porthos’ Flea! The Queen of the Court of Miracles!

“I am their leader, Your Majesty,” the woman says feigning humility, her eyes still lowered.

“Your name, Madame?” the Queen interjects. She no longer hides her distaste and anger.  

“Madame Boucher,” Flea declares and her eyes linger on d’ Artagnan underneath her long pale eyelashes. Does she remember him also? Is she provoking him to see if he will reveal her true identity? He decides to remain silent just like M. Marchal, curious to observe this peculiar dance between these two very different queens.  

“And what is it you that do Madame?” the Queen insists her tone menacing. “In case we decide to speak to you again.”

Flea lowers her eyes again, feigning sadness. “My dear departed husband, owned a bakery at the Rue de l’ Enfer, Your Majesty. I honor his memory by keeping it up with my children.” It is a terrible lie: transparent and blatant. It is a brilliant lie: there is indeed a bakery at the Rue de l’ Enfer owned by a widow, her son, and her daughter. Only that widow is not Flea. “We would be extremely honored, Your Majesty,” Flea continues with excitement, “if Your Majesties visit our humble bakery. My dear husband would have been elated, poor soul…”

Flea turns to the gathered group. “Friends,” she declares. “This is indeed His Majesty. He is here, in his bed and we are disturbing his peace. Let us all leave, bidding him good night!”

They all silently withdraw bowing again. Not long after, the roar of the crowd gathered at the palace gate subsides completely.

 

“The moment that woman, the baker’s wife, explained that the King is in his bed and they are all disturbing him, most people crossed themselves and the crowd dispersed in minutes,” M. de Laporte reports.

The King jumps from his bed. “Time to leave!” he orders. “Madame! Messieurs! To the coach!”

Monsieur, the King’s younger brother, a young man not older than fourteen, is waiting along M. de Rohan by the secret door. His face resembles that of the angels drawn by the great painters of Florence and Rome. He has his mother’s blue eyes and pale skin but his father’s raven black hair. A beautiful boy, almost unearthly, Raoul thinks. He looks displeased. “You are late!” he tells his mother.

She kisses his head tenderly leading him into the carriage. “My dear Philippe, you are impatient!” she says smiling.

“In truth it was not all that bad,” the young boy shrugs. “M. de Rohan is the most intriguing and handsome companion!”

 

***

Queen Anne, steps into the carriage accompanied by her two sons. D’ Artagnan, Raoul, and M. Marchal, also enter the carriage, armed to the teeth with pistols and their swords. M. de Rohan, jumps onto the box atop the carriage, wearing the livery of the Coadjutor’s coachman. The carriage hurries through the busy Parisian streets, towards the Richelieu gate.  No one stops it nor threatens its passengers. On occasion, M. de Rohan is greeted with great enthusiasm as the carriage passes by. He smiles innocently and waves back.

 “Who goes there?” inquires the guard at the Richelieu gate.

“Did you miss the coat of arms?” M. de Rohan replies from the top of the carriage pretending to be impatient. “Are you blind? Make it quick,” he adds, “My master has an urgent engagement, working for the likes of you all through the night!”

“Can this be…?” the guard mutters in awe.

“It is!” M. de Rohan retorts and the guard waves the carriage through the gate.

The ride to Rouen is easy after that, but for the muddied roads, left behind after the strong thunderstorms. When they arrive at Rouen, the Prime Minister is standing at the gate of his estate himself, anxiously waiting. It is hard for him to keep up appearances.

“Anne!” he exclaims hurrying to greet the Queen and kissing her hands. “Your Majesty, Monsieur” he continues addressing his two sons! “Thank God you have arrived safely!”

“And pray take a look in whose carriage!” the Queen replies smiling. She slides her hands around his waist embracing him tenderly as they enter the château.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The episode is based on a number of chapters and parts of chapters from “Twenty Years After.” They are significantly changed in this story. King Louis XIV is older here than in Dumas, given the timeline set by the BBC series. I thank M. Dumas for the inspiration and the ideas!
> 
> (1) The name is entirely fictional as is the title, although there was a Morosini family of Venetian Doges and high ranked aristocratic officials. Principe (Prince) was the highest rank of aristocracy among Italian city states at the time. 
> 
> (2) This faubourg (suburb) was outside the walls of Paris at the time. 
> 
> (3) Guémenée: Anne de Rohan (1604-1685) Princesse de Guémenée, sister in law to Madame de Chevreuse. 
> 
> (4) Laporte: Pierre Laporte (1603-1680) entered the service of Queen Anne in 1621. He enabled her correspondence with the Spanish court and for his “treason” he was imprisoned by Richelieu in 1637. When Anne became Regent in 1643 he returned to favor and was made valet de chambre of King Louis XIV in 1645. In his position he tried to undermine Mazarin’s influence. Dumas uses him in Twenty Years After at this part of the story. I follow Dumas, and it makes sense, since he seems to have been a confidant of Queen Anne and so really the official who would be involved in the kind of covert undertaking described in this story.


	30. Bicetre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sixteen years ago Lucien Grimaud watched as Athos shot and killed the woman he loved. Four years later, he learned that she had lived although the child she carried had died. Grimaud believed that Treville and Athos conspired to keep her from him and embarked upon a war of revenge, culminating in Treville's death and a confrontation with Athos in the passageways under the cathedral. The official report file by the Musketeers listed Grimaud as dead - but he lived. Protected by powerful government officials he resumed his work as a privateer, enriching the royal treasury. Now, he and his wife, Sophia d’ la Croix, have discovered that the child, a daughter, lived. He searches for her and answers as to who was responsible.
> 
> For more about Lucien please see 'To hell with circumstances....'  
> For more about Sophia's story please see 'A plain unvarnished tale....'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While political events are moving at a rapid pace, Lucien gets help from an unlikely sympathetic and determined ally in his search for his missing child.

‘What did she say?’ Constance D’Artagnan shifted the crying baby to the other side and continued to bounce and sway and thump the baby’s back. Baby Alexandre’s eyes were rolling wildly as he howled and twisted his tiny body. Lucien gripped the arms of his chair and resisted jumping up and snatching the baby away from her. Why do mothers think imitating the antics of a kangaroo while thumping the back of a squalling infant cures all reasons for wailing?

‘Lucien,’ she said sharply. Neither he nor baby Alexandre were paying proper attention to her instructions. The baby turned his face to him, opened his tiny pink mouth and let out a red-faced cry for help.

As you command my master thought Lucien and he stood up.

‘Let me try,’ he said and took the cloth from her shoulder and threw it over his own and lifted Alexandre from her startled arms. She stared at him.

‘Brandy,’ he suggested. ‘What?’ she cried, ‘brandy? At this hour of the day?’

‘Just get it,’ he ordered. ‘Is there warm water?’

‘Warm water!?’

‘If you are going to repeat every word I say - this is going to take too long.’ She snorted at him and stomped away mumbling her opinions about arrogant overbearing ridiculous men.

‘She’s not talking about you – only me,’ he said consoling the baby, ‘but we need to stick together on this.’

Alexandre had suspended his wailing oratory – teary eyes wide with amazement at the transition of those attending on him. It wasn’t the first time these hazel eyes had winked at him, the deep voice soothing or making him laugh. Large warm capable hands held him with confidence, fingers tickling or gentle and comforting. He stared into the face held close to his own and reached out a tiny hand to explore it. But his eyes were troubled, and he whimpered.

‘One-minute young master,’ Lucien told the unhappy baby. He lay the infant across his thighs and re-wrapped him snuggly in his blanket and turned him over on his stomach, his hand, palm up supporting his small rounded head. He stroked the infant’s cheek with his thumb. The baby inclined his head into the stroking motion. Lucien shifted his legs side to side and moved his hand in a gentle circular motion on the baby’s back. Constance returned with brandy in a glass and a pitcher of warm water.

‘I think he needs it more than you,’ she grumbled.

‘Exactly,’ smiled Lucien. He poured a little of the warm water into the brandy and dipped the tip of his little finger into the glass. He let the baby explore his finger, his tiny mouth tentatively sampling the new taste. Alexandre’s eyes went wide and then he latched onto Lucien’s warm water-brandied finger, soothed by the rhythmic movements. Slowly the baby’s cries subsided, and his eyes went a little blank and wide and closed.

‘What is it?’ she said staring at Alexandre. ‘Colic, I think,’ replied Lucien. She looked unhappily at the baby as though he might have informed her of this diagnosis. For a moment Lucien thought she would also start wailing.

He would need more brandy.

‘It’s impossible to know and confusing as to what to do when they fuss like this,’ he soothed the mother as well. ‘You have to try everything.’

‘You were not confused,’ she said morosely. She was tired and had been alone caring for the child without help from the nurse or the stubborn husband. The disturbances in the street were occupying the husband and the cause for nurse to fear for her safety traveling through the city.

‘I have four children,’ he reminded her. ‘Although I thought they were going to be born talking and explaining their ailments and able to change their own nappies.’ She smiled and frowned at the same time.

‘I think Sophia was ready to pitch me out and find a husband with a brain. I had much to learn.’

‘You can also try wringing out a cloth in warm water and hold it on his tummy – Sophia tried that at times and it helped. Although I prefer my brandy trick,’ he smiled. Constance laughed.

‘She would know,’ said Constance. He smiled – yes, she would – but he said nothing. Mothers could be fragile creatures. Besides, in his estimation – no woman should ever compare herself to Sophia.

She looked quickly at Lucien, ‘I would so like to see her – and your children.’

‘Whenever you wish,’ he replied. ‘She would like that as well. We will send the carriage for you and Alexandre. I’ll drive you myself if you would feel safer.’

‘It wouldn’t be an imposition? You have such a busy household,’ she temporized. She doubted that D’Artagnan would want her to go to the home of Lucien Grimaud. Although it was Sophia’s home too and there was no reason she could not visit her and the children. Lucien was a different man now. But then – she hadn’t really known him – nor she had known why he did any of what he had stood accused. Perhaps he wasn’t different – perhaps none of them had known him at all.

He laughed, ‘there are over 30 chambers in that house. If you miss a turn you won’t find the dining room for days. We will have to send the hounds to sniff you out for rescue.’ She smiled at his image and was grateful for his insistence that she and her baby would be a welcome part of a busy household. She would enjoy that - she had grown up in such a home.

‘Our daughters would love to see the baby. You and Alexandre are no imposition,’ he assured her. Sophia didn’t blame Constance for D’Artagnan’s past actions.

He handed the quiet and sleepy baby to her. ‘I think he will sleep now.’ She held the infant for a moment watching his face intently as mothers do with their children. Memorizing every feature, alert for any twitch or sound.

‘I shall leave you and Alexandre to a well needed nap,’ he set the bag he had carried in on the table and reached for his cloak and hat preparing to depart. Constance peered into the bag and smiled at him lifting the melon and oranges from the bag. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘but you cannot leave just yet.’

‘I want to hear happened at Bicetre,’ she said firmly. ‘You said the nun knew Sophia! In the medical camps at the front…’ He shook his head and started to stand.

‘Just for a short time – I must hear what you have learned,’ she implored. “Then I’ll take a nap,’ she bargained. If he thought that was amusing – or odd - that she negotiated with him, he did not comment on it and neither did Constance. She had taken on his cause as her own.

‘Obstinate woman,’ he said severely. But he sat back down.

Bicetre. Father de Paul and Madame Marillac had told him that was where they sent a 5-year-old girl. They believed the baby to have come from Royamount Abbey – brought to them within a few months of her birth by a man accompanied by a wet nurse. The man did not reveal his name. Lucien surmised that Sister Agatha had either found a family for the newborn infant or had finally lost the test of wills with Treville and the abbot. He would never know. It didn’t matter. He was closer to her than he had ever been - he had ridden to the orphanage at a gallop.

‘It is outside the city – the air is actually breathable,’ he told Constance.

It was a large three-story stone building, two wings enclosing a swept yard. Children were dressed in uniform pants and shirts, although many were barefoot. There were the large rooms of beds lined up along two walls, unlit fires and cold rooms. Groups of children were herded around the building and grounds by stern faced nuns carrying birch switches. But what distinguished Biectre from other foundling homes he had visited was the organized labor done by its orphans. Industry was the watchword of Bicetre.

Children were employed at every task for every need by those who lived at Bicetre: from cleaning chamber pots to delicate needlework – children were working. They were sweeping the yard, tending gardens, cleaning floors, carrying baskets of laundry up and down stairs, washing dishes, cutting up vegetables, stirring huge pots of soup, rolling out dough for bread. All ages, all sizes – work was found for everyone. Sisters in dark robes and large wimples strolled behind or stood with arms crossed watching their charges. A child who was thought to be moving too slowly or was indolent received a prompt reprimand from the birch switches. He suspected there were likely other physical punishments. From the look of the children, restricting food was also used to enforce rules and punish offenders.

‘You do not seem to approve of this practice of employing the children to work,’ said Constance, studying his face as he talked. ‘Isn’t that better than being aimless?’ asked Constance.

A memory moved forward in his mind and clicked into place. He must have been very young - he was being lifted into a wheelbarrow, trundled along in a garden and then he was following Sister Agatha as she tended the plants. She had turned to him and laughed at his effort to carry the watering can – it seemed half as tall as he was, and more water had splashed over him than on the thirsty plants.

‘I suppose because it seemed more like prison labor than a home for orphans,’ he said tersely. He looked angry. ‘There was little schooling offered.’

He had resisted the urge to snatch away a switch and advance on the army of nuns like he was mounting an assault on an enemy ship – ready to use their weapon of choice to teach of few of his own lessons.

‘It really troubles you,’ she said seeing the expression of anger cross his face. ‘It worries you too. You see her working there – being forced into this hard labor and suffering the switch or other humiliations.’

He could see nothing else.

Madame Marillac sent him to talk to Sister Inez and he found her in the kitchen supervising a group of girls doing laundry and a second group of girls helping the cooks prepare the evening meal. She turned her charges over to another sister and led him across the swept yard to a bench along the back wall. She did not carry a switch.

‘Monsieur Grimaud,’ said the Sister, ‘how can I help you.’

‘I am looking for a child – now a young woman,’ who might have been here little more than 10 years ago. She would have come here from Madame Marillac, perhaps brought to you by a man.’

‘Is that all?’ asked the Sister Inez, ‘do you have nothing more? A identifying mark? Not even a name?

Lucien hesitated – he knew her name. ‘Do you keep records? By name?’

‘We are to keep records on who comes here and the year they arrive. Also, special or distinctive characteristics about the child.’

He pursed his lips, ‘special?’ he asked. ‘What would be considered special about an orphan – other than having survived the foundling homes long enough to come here,’ he attempted a disarmingly smile to soften his words.

Sister Inez nodded sadly. ‘The Matron likes to make notes on children she considers exceptional,’ she paused, ‘she then can recommend a suitable child to a benefactor. Inquiries are often made here for children who might be deserving of an apprenticeship or obtain work in a laundry or some other honest trade.’

‘She had favorites,’ Lucien was blunt. The nun blushed, blinking at him and looking away. She did not want to appear disloyal to her superior. But she considered the Matron too quick in her judgements and with the switch and often punished a child for minor infractions. Humiliation and public shaming to force compliance was a common practice at Bicetre.

‘And those who are a little more ordinary?’ he asked, ‘do they get notes too or perhaps it is better for them if they are ignored by the Matron.’ He had deduced the situation quickly and his questions were pointed and direct. The Sister lowered her eyes and did not reply. She had sympathy for those who merited no special notice and perhaps no special opportunity.

‘What happens to less-exceptional children?’ he twisted his mouth with sarcasm.

‘I hope every child finds a comforting shoulder and tender word as it is needed,’ she said as diplomatically as possible.

Lucien leaned toward her, ‘I am sure, Sister Inez, that you are a reliable and constant provider of these comforts that every child needs to thrive.’

She looked at him shyly, ‘Sir – I understand you are married to the Duchess de la Croix.’

‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘for the past 12 years.’

‘I believe I may have known her when we were both at the front working in the medical camps. I did not know that she had a child,’ she looked down, ‘perhaps she did not confide in me. It was a difficult time there – few opportunities to share our lives.’

‘That is a remarkable coincidence,’ remarked Lucien. ‘I will tell her that I saw you here. Perhaps she can visit you.'

The nun smiled and nodded eagerly, 'I would very much like to see her again. ‘I will search as best I can for any record of the child and make inquiries of the other Sisters. Those who were here at the time may remember her. One thing you should know – children do run away. They often come back – life on the streets is very harsh for them and there are many dangers. I believe you understand this well Monsieur. But sometimes, they do not come back and we never know what becomes of them.’

Many of the child-families formed in the Court of Miracles were runaways – from orphanages, or other cruel circumstances where life on the streets of Paris seemed a better option. Lucien had already enlisted Flea’s help.

‘Perhaps Monsieur, it would help me if you could tell me her name.’

Constance smiled at him. ‘And did you tell her? I hope you did – it could make the difference.’ She had thought it odd – how he was reluctant to speak the child’s name. At first, she had not understood his reasons – but then she realized how private this felt to him - his baby girl had actually lived - a baby born to him and the woman he loved - conferring God's approval of their union. And at that moment – she understood something about this dark formidable man for whom many feared and stepped aside on the street. The same man who knew how to help her infant son with colic and never failed to make her baby boy squeal with laughter and wave his arms with wild joy.

Her name – he knew her name. Sophia had given their baby her name and Sister Agatha had recorded it on the child’s birth certificate, listing Sophia as her mother and him as her father. He had stared at the name with a confusing mixture of happiness, disbelief, anger and relief. She was real, and she had a name. It repeated in his mind and had a pleasing sound when he said it to himself. He did not use her name in casual reference. Because - when he said her name - he wanted it to be when he found her, called her by name – and she came to him.

He looked at Sister Inez, who was watching him with kindness. She lay a cool hand over his, ‘I know it is dear to you. I will treat it with care.’ He was suddenly grateful for this woman – who he hoped had given his daughter a shoulder and a kind word and had not found cause for the switch.

‘Her name is Cecille.’


	31. Beloved

**Author: Mordaunt**

_If ever two were one, then surely we,_  
_If ever man were loved by wife, then thee;_  
_If ever wife was happy in a man,_  
_Compare with me ye women if you can._  
_(Anne Bradstreet, 1678, “To My Dear and Loving Husband”)_

  

The chamber is lit by a few candles and a fire ablaze in the fireplace when she steps in. Still it is cold and damp, the air in the room slightly stale. It feels empty, the creaking wooden floors barren, no paintings or tapestries on the walls, the furniture scant and mismatched: a few chairs, a desk, and an ancient four-post bed. A cold draft from a window somewhere makes her shiver.  She has thrown her travelling cloak over her nightgown.

He is writing at the desk, his back turned as she enters. He notices her at the door and hurries towards her: “Anne, don’t stand there, you will catch your death.” He leads her to the bed covering her with a warm blanket. He sits next to her at the foot of the bed, embracing her, his hand tenderly stroking her back, his fingers playing with the edges of her hair. He always does this when they sit next to each other, and she loves how he is completely unware of it. He sounds apologetic: “There is not much here, I fear. This house has been locked for years.”

She smiles. “I don’t mind. At least we have beds. I am told most of the court arriving from Paris has nothing. A bundle of hay is the most sought-after staple in Rouen tonight.” (1)

She notices it the moment she turns her eyes to look at him: a scratch on his temple. “You are injured!” She is worried. She has always been worried about him; that she might lose him. First, because of the man she thought he was: his love precious but inconstant, his nature changeable. Later, because she understood the limitations of her power, and feared for his life. After her husband’s death, because she could not believe all this happiness was possible or that she deserved it. Since the boys in the streets started flinging stones and calling for his death, she has been wondering if all that is left to her is borrowed time. “Does it hurt?” she asks.

“No!” he protests but immediately retracts: “Well maybe… a little…?” he lowers his eyes like a naughty child caught in a lie. 

“You are a scoundrel!” she retorts, gently pushing him away. “You tried this before, when I was young and naïve!” 

He laughs and kisses her long neck. “My love, you have never been naïve…”

“Do you call your Queen a scheming woman then, Monseigneur?” she feigns aloofness. Her hands slip under his shirt feeling his skin. He winces in pain.

“God, you are injured!” she exclaims, the fear returning. “We must call a physician!” She is about to stand but he stops her.

“It is nothing, Anne,” he says quietly. “Just a bruise. It is my self-assurance that was mostly injured… I had no doubt I could…”

She kisses his hands: “That you could shoot while climbing out of the window of a speeding carriage as if you were twenty? I know all about your accomplishments tonight…”

He shrugs and laughs. In the glimmer of his black eyes she can see his younger reckless self, looking back at her. She can hear his voice too: “Yes! Why not?”

She kisses him on the lips: “Because you are no longer twenty and before you protest, I am extremely happy that you are not!”

“Well… The thing is… That young Musketeer jumped onto the carriage from his horse…” he continues. “I could do that once…”

“De Thierry, is a child,” she interrupts him. “Truly exceptional…”  

“Of course! De Thierry! Your favorite… Should I be jealous?” he whispers gently leaning her back against the cushions and removing the blanket and her traveling cloak that cover her.

She feigns an undecided look. “Well… why not?” she is about to say imitating his nonchalant reckless tone and his words. She does not. Her playful retort is muffled by her breath and a slow climbing tension as his warm lips begin to travel carefully along her skin following the curves of her body.

\--- 

The morning that follows is gray and it makes the house look even more drab and empty. She cares little about it, that is the truth, although, being the Queen, she has to pretend she is dissatisfied. All she cares about is that everyone she loves is safe and unharmed under one roof. All that matters to her is that they remain so. If she is on borrowed time she is determined to make it last.

They enter respectfully, Captain d’ Artagnan and his four men. It feels familiar, a scene from the past playing out with different actors. Or perhaps not so different: Rochefort’s son walks in first, behind his Captain. Handsome she has always thought him, steadfast, gallant, and courageous. Qualities his father lacked. Still she cannot shirk a feeling of dread, a coldness that envelops her every time she recalls Rochefort at the sight of his son. She finds it impossible to warm up to this young man, innocent though he is of all the crimes his father committed. As innocent as his mother, Mariana Sidonia, the girl with the soft eyes who sung like an angel and blushed when she spoke. Anne remembers her fondly. She served Queen Margaret (2), Anne’s mother and then was married off to the Comte de Rochefort, a nobleman from France she had never met. When her betrothed arrived in Spain to tutor Anne in the ways of the French court, everyone marveled at Mariana Sidonia’s good fortune. The Comte de Rochefort’s elegance had no match in the Spanish court. Anne was slightly jealous. The Comte de Rochefort was all a lady could wish for. Would the French King be as captivating? It all turned out differently in the end. The Comte de Rochefort died a murderer and a traitor. Mariana Sidonia’s charmed life ended in poverty and disgrace.

M. de Rohan is followed by M. de Thierry. Her fearless defender, the Queen calls the young Musketeer. She finds herself worrying about one so young living a life so dangerous, as if M. de Thierry were one of her children. The Musketeer reminds her of Philippe sometimes: determined and undaunted, but vulnerable. An orphan she has been told, raised by Sisters of Charity. That alone speaks to her of M. de Thierry’s courage.

The recruit, M. Marchal is next. He always keeps slightly behind the other two, the Queen notices. A bit awkward. Still feeling guilty perhaps for flinging stones against the Prime Minister’s carriage in the streets.

She knows all about that. M. de Comminges made sure she did. A bitter, ambitious brute the Queen thinks of her Lieutenant of the Guards. He dislikes Captain d’ Artagnan and seeks to undermine him, craving his position. The Queen finds it vulgar. But M. de Comminges protects her and her sons with great courage, and that is all that matters now.

As for M. Marchal’s past, the Queen has complete confidence in Captain d’ Artagnan’s instinct.  Besides, a part of her is fond of this young man, rugged and rough, rather lost at times, trying hard to prove himself worthy of his Captain’s confidence and his Queen’s trust. The King likes him also. In fact, since his timely intervention the previous night, the King speaks of M. Marchal often.

The King also speaks with much excitement about another man: the fourth officer who walks into the room, behind the rest. Polished and elegant, the spitting image of his father. Not so much the hardened man the Queen knew as a Musketeer and a Captain, but the man she had known in her youth: a gentleman of her husband’s court, an impeccable nobleman, whose beauty and talent with the sword used to make her ladies giddy, Madame de Chevreuse in particular. Her reckless beloved friend Marie, who shamelessly flirted with that young provincial nobleman to no avail. (3)

His son stands now in the room, looking as noble and handsome as his father, although there is nothing reserved or provincial about him. Quite the opposite. After all, the young man standing behind Captain d’ Artagnan in the uniform of M. le Prince’s officers (4) is a prince on his mother’s side. Who would have thought? The Queen suspects Richelieu knew when he first sought this young man’s mother out (5). Despite the distance from Venice, the family’s story is almost a legend. The Queen has heard many different versions of it.  She thought it a fabrication first: The story of Andrea Morosini (6) the promising scholar, only son of the Doge of Venice, who eloped with the daughter of the painter Orazio Anguissola (7), a friend of Michelangelo himself. They called her Lady Bianca, but her name was Bianca Minerva Anguissola. Kings vied for her paintings, for she was far more talented than her father. The Queen recalls her own father’s efforts to lure the Lady Bianca to the Spanish court. After the Lady’s early death her paintings were thought rare and became invaluable. Aramis owns two, and it was only when she looked upon them that the story of the noble scholar and the lady painter felt real. Their only daughter grew up to be an assassin and a spy. A “true artist in blood” she was styled at court. Then she became Louis’ mistress and the Queen hated her for her audacity, as much as she admired her for it.  Later, she thought she might use the woman’s talents too and was not disappointed. Her work was subtle, efficient, and left no traces. “Careful what you wish for,” she had admonished the Queen, her tone so impertinent that it took the Queen completely by surprise. “Once you begin on this path, there is no turning back.” She was right. When the Queen insisted in demanding her services she defied her; she ignored the letters and scoffed at the threats. To the Queen’s eyes that is her most unpardonable crime.

There is something in the young man’s gaze now that reminds the Queen of his mother:  intrepid, daring, and slightly arrogant. Behind the young man’s clear grey eyes, the Queen detects a sharp and astute mind. The King’s enthusiasm about this brilliant M. de Bragelonne worries her more than anything else. She knows from experience that a clever servant is invaluable but a brilliant one is almost always dangerous. It troubles her how this young man managed so easily and so quickly to insinuate himself into the King’s trust, almost at the same time as the Duc de Beaufort’s escape. There is no evidence at all that the two events are connected. There is not even evidence that the Comte de la Fére and his wife were behind that escape. Still, who else could it be?

The King is announced and he enters from the large double doors of the room followed by the Prime Minister and a small group of courtiers. Her son shines, the Queen thinks. The room, so dreary and bleak, immediately feels warm and bright in his presence. She curtsies deeply and everyone else bows.

“Your Majesty!”

“Captain d’ Artagnan!” the King exclaims. “You and your men must be congratulated for your valor last night. You protected and preserved the lives of all that are dear to Us and showed undaunted courage and ingenuity in the face of impossible and overwhelming odds!”

“Your Majesty,” the Captain responds still bowing, hat in hand, “my men and I have merely done our duty. We thank God and Divine Providence for assisting us in ensuring the safety and preservation of Your Majesty.”

The King smiles a satisfied smile. “M. de Rohan,” the King says. He approaches the Musketeer handing him a substantial bag of coin: “We are grateful for singlehandedly rescuing Our Beloved Brother and leading Us all to safety last night.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” M. de Rohan replies bowing. “Serving Your Majesty is my one and only duty!”

The King moves to the next Musketeer. “M. de Thierry,” he says, “Your courage and quick intervention safeguarded the life of Our beloved Prime Minister.” He hands the young Musketeer another substantial bag of coin as a reward. “You have Our gratitude!”

“Thank you, Your Majesty!” M. de Thierry retorts. “I am always ready to serve Your Majesty!”

The King appears very pleased. “M. Marchal!” he exclaims stopping before the young recruit next. “You have proven yourself Our loyal and intrepid defender! It is time to be rewarded as you deserve!” He signals one of the courtiers to hand him a sword. “Kneel M. Marchal!” the King declares and the young man falls to his knees, slightly trembling. His comrades and his Captain cannot hide their joy. Everyone is silent. The King speaks slowly now, his voice resonating in the entire room. “M. Marchal, you have shown yourself a fearless warrior, brave, courageous, and daring. You have proven your loyalty, integrity, and honor. A worthy soldier in my army of Musketeers. Rise M. Marchal and take the place you deserve among my men!”

M. Marchal stands his head still lowered, trying to hide his emotion, although his voice betrays it: “My life belongs to Your Majesty!” is all he can muster.

The King appears to be touched. He slightly bows his head in acknowledgement, and smiles as he also hands M. Marchal a bag of coin. “I hope you spend it wisely, M. Marchal,” the King jokes, “not just celebrating your promotion with your comrades!” Everyone laughs, which eases the emotion and tension in the room.

“M. de Bragelonne,” he declares now. Raoul steps forward bowing deeply. The King hands Raoul his reward, adding “M. Bragelonne your bravery against overwhelming odds, and your brilliant design and quick action ensured the safety of all those We love.”

“I am a loyal servant of your Majesty!” Raoul says accepting the reward and bowing with respect.

“I wondered Monsieur what to offer you,” the King continues. His tone has changed. He speaks as if he would to a peer. “This reward is customary for all my officers.  But to a man of your standing and rank, I shall make a different offer: a position of trust in my court. I come of age soon as you well know. I hope you join my court at the time.”

Raoul bows again smiling. “I will be honored to serve your Majesty in whatever capacity Your Majesty sees fit!” he says.

That is exactly what Her Majesty feared. She knows well that once her son comes of age, she will be unable to protect him from such rash decisions. Still, that time has not arrived. She knows exactly what must be done.

“Anne,” the Prime Minister’s voice is quiet and deliberate, as it always is when he is concerned. The two of them are alone now, the King and his gentlemen having withdrawn along with Captain d’ Artagnan and his men. “Anne, whatever it is you plan to do, please consider it carefully.” He knows her better than anyone, and she decides not to insult him by dissimulating. She also knows that Raoul de Bragelonne is the son of his best friend.

“All I want is to keep our son safe,” she retorts.

“M. de Bragelonne poses no danger to our son…” Aramis ventures.

She smiles. “I wonder if his father knows about his adventures lately…”

“Captain d’ Artagnan assured me that the Comte de la Fére knows and he has no objections. M. de Bragelonne is a clever, loyal, and courageous young man!”

Aramis is not naïve. He simply hears what he wants to hear, and sees what he wants to see. The Queen understands that in this particular issue she is alone. “M. de Bragelonne is a very clever young man indeed,” she says. “Too clever perhaps, for his own good…”

“Anne,” Aramis insists. “Please consider your actions on this matter carefully. If the Comte de la Fére is really our adversary would it not be best if we flatter him through his son?”

It is a good argument but the Queen’s mind is already set on a course of action. “Of course, my love” she says, “let us rejoice in the fact that we are all safe and talk no more about it.”

 

****

 

She stands by the window in her rooms now. The sky over Rouen has been gray and clouded since the early morning. Now another storm is approaching. She knows well that Aramis would never agree with what she is about to do. That he will be disappointed. She knows well that he will never tell her how much.

“Enter!” she orders as someone knocks on her door.

“M. de Laporte!” she tells her trusted old servant who enters. “Prepare a formal invitation for the Baroness de Renard, the widow of M. de St. Maure and daughter of the Baron de Garouville (8), and for her son, the Comte de Renard, to join our court here in Rouen immediately and bring it to me to sign. Once they arrive, arrange to have the young Comte brought to me. I need to speak to him in private. The audience must not be known outside these walls.”

“As Your Majesty wishes,” the valet retorts, bowing deeply.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Dumas, Twenty Years After, Chapter LV  
> (2) Margaret of Austria (25 December 1584 – 3 October 1611)  
> (3) Past Forgotten, Past Remembered (posted in AO3)  
> (4) Monsieur le Prince: Louis de Bourbon (1621-1686) Duc d’ Enghien, became Prince de Condè upon the death of his father in 1646. Known as “Monsieur le Prince” he fought valiantly at the battles of Rocroy (1643,) Nordlingen (1644,) and Lens (August 1648.) In the autumn of 1648, he threw his military skills behind the royal cause (i.e., against the Fronde.) However, believing that he was insufficiently rewarded for his services he reacted with such arrogance that he alienated both Mazarin and the Queen. He was jailed in the Vincennes in 1650. By 1651 the political situation had changed and Mazarin was forced to release him. He immediately raised an army to rescue the young King from his advisers. He failed, refused to accept the peace of 1653 and fled to Spain where he took part in campaigns against France. He was reinstated in 1659, and retired to his estate in Chantilly. He was recalled to service in 1668 and fought his last battle in 1674.  
> (5) In “Past Forgotten, Past Remembered,” Milady offers her own version about how Richelieu sought her out. It is possible the Queen is right here about what Richelieu actually knew although Milady would never know the truth.  
> (6) There is indeed a family of Doges and scholars in Venice called “Morosini.” I used the name and was inspired by the different family members’ histories, but the story here is fictional.  
> (7) The story of Milady’s mother is fictional. I used different historical characters, but was mostly inspired by the story of the painter Sofonisba Anguissola (c. 1532 – 16 November 1625.)  
> (8) Character from The Musketeers BBC, Season 2: Catherine de Garouville.


	32. The Matron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sixteen years ago Lucien Grimaud watched as Athos shot and killed the woman he loved. Four years later, Lucien learned that she had lived although the child she carried had died. Grimaud believed that Treville and Athos conspired to keep her from him and embarked upon a war of revenge, culminating in Treville's death and a confrontation with Athos in the passageways under the cathedral. The official report file by the Musketeers listed Grimaud as dead - but he lived. Protected by powerful government and military officials he resumed his work as a privateer, enriching the royal treasury in a time of war.
> 
> Now married, for the past twelve years to the Duchess Sophia de la Croix, he has discovered that their child, a daughter, did not die. He searches for her and answers as to who was responsible and why.
> 
> New leads open up for Lucien to follow as he searches Paris for his child. The trail has led him to the foundling homes run by the Father Vincent de Paul and the Daughters of Charity. Information points to an orphanage outside Paris and an old friend asks him for a favor that will have consequences for the balance of power in a beleaguered city in the middle of rebellion against an unpopular Queen.

_"Life is a dream for the wise, a game for a fool, a comedy for the rich, and a tragedy for the poor." (Sholom Aleichem)_

There were five words on the message – not counting the name of the sender. Five words that send a jolt through him. He reached for his riding coat and hat and ran down the stairs from his office calling to the stable boy for his horse.

‘I’ll come with you,’ called Paul de Vry jumping down the stairs two at a time to catch up with Lucien – who stopped at the bottom and looked up at him.

‘Stay here – wait for the captains. I won’t be gone long.’ He vaulted into the saddle and put his heels to the big stallion, moving off quickly and threading his way through the street traffic - women carrying large baskets, seamen balancing bulky bags on their shoulders, slow moving drays, carriages and riders. Wagons were lined up along the side waiting for barges.

In less than an hour he was riding into the yard of the Bicetre orphanage. He dismounted quickly and tossed the reins to a waiting boy and then he was striding across the swept dirt yard toward the front entrance. He took the stairs two at a time and was through the front door almost bumping into the nun that was hurrying to meet him. He stepped back and bowed slightly.

‘Sister,’ he said with what he hoped would pass as pleasantry, ‘please tell Sister Inez that Monsieur Grimaud is here to see her – please.’ His eyes bored into hers and he tried not to look as impatient as he felt.

‘I will see if she can receive you,’ the nun replied and turned to leave. He stepped forward to follow her and she turned back to him, eyes wide at his audacity. He tried to smile disarmingly, ‘she will see me,’ he said in answer to her unasked question. He held up the message with a little wave. ‘She sent for me,’ and smiled again. He had no intention of waiting.

The nun started to speak, but a voice stopped her, and both Lucien and the nun turned toward the stairs. Sister Inez had seen him ride in and was coming down the stairs.

‘Thank you, Sister,’ she murmured to the nun and indicated that Lucien should follow her. She led him back up the stairs and through tall doors into a library, book cases lining three of the four walls, tall windows along the fourth wall. Dim light from a gray sky fell onto the threadbare carpet. The room was not empty.

A woman of an uncertain age was sitting in an unforgiving wooden chair. Even sitting he could tell she was uncommonly tall, knees held firmly together, and feet set sensibly on the floor tucked under her dark heavy habit. Her large square hands were matched by the square shape of her face, her pale skin compressed as a wimple imposes on its surface, a straight fleshy nose, eyes of indeterminate color and faint brows. He imagined her teeth were also square. Her mouth was large, lips pressed firmly together to prevent any hint of smile or other amiable expression escaping toward him – or anyone. This was the Matron.

Sister Inez motioned toward a chair opposite the Matron for him to sit. He bowed to the expressionless and silent nun and sat down. Sister Inez took a chair behind the Matron. For a long moment there was only silence. Lucien turned his head toward the windows. There were over 300 hundred children in this building and he couldn’t hear any of them. No talking, or calling out to each other, the boisterous sounds that accompanied boys, or the trilling sounds of young girls walking arm in arm, laughter, or crying from a sudden fall while playing a game in the yard – nothing.

Bicetre – a place where children worked but did not play - his face tightened. He turned back to the Matron to find her watching him without expression – his eyes met hers and he locked onto her as though he held her face in place with his hard hands. It was subtle – but he saw the flicker in those colorless eyes. She dropped her eyes and cleared her throat.

Without looking at her he could see the taut face of Sister Inez. How long would it be before her gentle nature faltered under the steady stream of abandoned sad children and the cheerless custodians of the Lord’s mercy. Were they fortunate to be here with worthwhile work and two meals a day? Suddenly he wondered if he was thinking of the children or the nuns? Perhaps both - he had seen worse on the streets of Paris – for both children and women. He hated this place.

He pulled the message from his tunic and spread it open carefully. Leaning forward, his eyes on the Matron’s, he dropped it into her lap.

The message was written plainly across the sheet of paper – large square letters – not the refined graceful script unique to the hand of a gentle woman. Elegant in form and evocative of the lady who dipped quill into ink and shaped each letter with precision and distinction. Such script was learned and practiced during long hours of careful repetition and under the supervision of an exacting governess. He remembered how it felt to receive a letter from his wife. He could run his fingers over the paper and feel her soft hand under his own as she formed the flowing beautiful script that told him of their children and her love for him.

But the letters in the message he now held were formed with practical and plain square shapes by one who never learned the art of script from a governess. Or perhaps this is the only form of making letters that is tolerated by the Matrons of the church who stamp out elegance and grace along with noisy singing children.

_We may have found her._

He waited, eyes fixed on the stern woman sitting across from him. She opened the ledger she held on her lap, turning to a page marked by a piece of paper.

‘Father de Paul sent a message asking us to look for the information you seek,’ the Matron’s voice was quiet and pitched low as she made it clear that if not for Father de Paul, they would not be sitting here together. He nodded. ‘You are kind to assist me,’ he said sincerely and was rewarded with a faint scowl.

There are many children Monsieur Grimaud,’ she had a somber tone. ‘I do not know if this is the child you are looking for, but she fits some of the details you have given us.’ He sat perfectly still and tried not to appear as impatient as he felt.

‘She came to us from one of Father de Paul’s foundling homes when she was five years old,’ the severity of the nun’s face was momentarily softened as she studied the paper. She remembers this child thought Lucien.

‘She had a wistful spirit that could not dampened by tasks or…’ the woman’s voice trailed off as she turned inward to consider her memories.

Or by the switch? He ground his teeth and suppressed a flush of anger. Or deprived of food? Or standing on a chair for hours to improve attitude and conformity? But he needed the nun’s help, so he said nothing.

‘Were there any notes on where she came from? What village?’ he asked. ‘Is her mother known?’

‘She replied, ‘there is a note that suggests somewhere near Senlis.’ Not Royamount Abbey – but in the right general direction, he thought.

‘What else?’ he asked.

‘You provided no identifying details aside from eye and hair color,’ replied the Matron. ‘The child had dark hair and blue eyes,’ she hesitated. ‘Some considered her eyes quite distinctive. I cannot say myself that I noticed in particular.’

No – the Matron would not have encouraged any vanity – no sunny comments as a mother might make to her daughter about beautiful eyes or silky hair or the lovely sound of her voice.

‘What did you notice Sister?’ he kept his voice neutral trying to appear interested in her good opinion of an orphan girl. The nun glanced at him suspicious that he might be mocking her. He looked back with a serious thoughtful expression. Or at least he hoped he did. 

‘She had a bright outlook and…’ the nun studied the document and looked up at him, ‘she sang,’ her voice was flat and devoid of any sentiment, but he saw the flash of remembrance in those colorless eyes. Behind the Matron Sister Inez smiled and caught his look. She liked the description of a singing hopeful child. She would be pleased if this child was his.

How did a child find a song in this place? What a spirit she must have possessed to charm this dour woman. ‘Did anyone show a special interest in her?’ he didn’t know how to ask this question of the Matron. Whatever phrase he considered, it sounded wrong.

‘There are positions where a suitable child might find work or even an apprenticeship,’ she said. ‘The captain of the Musketeers has come here seeking recruits.’ He raised his brows in surprise. ‘There are boys who are eager to be considered.’

‘However,’ she looked at him from under hooded eyes with a rueful look, ‘I cannot recall if anyone from your profession has shown such an interest.’

‘I shall seek to remedy that oversight,’ he said and grinned at her – rather delighted at her unexpected quip with him although he wondered what part of his profession, she would consider suitable for Bicetre children.

‘And the girl?’ he asked again. The Matron’s flirtation with levity vanished. ‘No,’ she said with severity. ‘A cheerful nature is well and good, but it can fail to impress with the seriousness needed to be considered for a position. In this, she was found lacking. I am sorry to say that she became enamored of play-acting and invented fanciful stories of a life as an – actress.’ She spat the word out disdainfully, to purge herself of its coarse connotation. It was an offense to their diligence to rid these children of sin and corruption to which they were, by virtue of their base born birth – very likely to succumb.

She leaned toward him, ‘she ran away,’ she said with resignation at the predictable outcome for the lyrical and fanciful bastard girl. She had some hopes for this girl – despite her shortcomings as a cheerful child.

‘Have you any thought of where she might have gone?’ he felt desperate. He had searched the streets of Paris – he didn’t know where else to look there.

‘I don’t know – perhaps she looked for some theatrical troupe. Many runaways come back. The streets are harder than they realize. But she did not come back. I do not know what became of her.’

He sat back in his chair and his gaze wandered to the window. Was it her? Blue eyes, dark hair…was it enough? If it was her – where was she now? And if it wasn’t her…

He looked back to the Matron. ‘Thank you, Sister,’ he was careful to be courteous despite his disappointment, the familiar hovering dread settling its weight on him. He raked his hand through his hair and grimaced in frustration.

‘I have just one more question of you.’ She nodded and waited. ‘What was her name?’

'Cecille'

>>

He rode his horse slowly through the city center toward his docks. He was barely aware of the jostling crowds that parted for him. A carriage passed by as did a few other riders moving quickly through the unquiet streets. He turned his head to see the line of people waiting patiently for the doors of the charity house to open for a bowl of soup. Men and women clutching their tattered garments to them to ward off the chill, empty faces devoid of any animation, standing and staring at nothing in particular. Wide eyed children, some barefoot with pants too short and thin jackets, fingers in their mouths, watched him as he passed. Some were with a woman, but most were alone or with another child. He had passed other lines of starving people standing listless with hunger and waiting.

He looked to the end of the block where a collection of civilians was arrayed against a barricade erected at the junction of two streets. He couldn’t tell the purpose of the barricade at this street – but by now he knew often there was no purpose. Barricades sprang up randomly and throughout the city and for no purpose other than as a symbol of mutiny by local street inhabitants rather than a military strategy of the rebel leadership. They paraded around it brandishing an assortment of farm tools, a rare ancient pistol or sword and took care to assemble an assortment of rocks to throw at the infrequent squads of mounted guards who appeared at the opposite end of the street. Caught between the barricades and the guards were starving men, women and orphaned children.

He grimaced in frustration and put his heels to his horse, hand on his sword as he approached the barricade. If a rock was thrown at him…he tightened his hand on the hilt of his sword and scowled angrily.

But he was waved through the obstruction and continued toward the docks without incident. He handed his reins to the stable boy and strode up the stairs. He threw open the door of his office and slammed it shut behind him. He stalked to a side table and tossed wine into a glass draining it quickly and pouring another. He paced to the window and stared moodily out to the street below considering and discarding options to find theatrical troupes and a blue-eyed dark-haired girl who sang beautifully and had a romantic cheerful disposition. Where to start?

A creak of a chair behind him – he whirled, his hand to his sword.

‘You seem to have had a difficult day,’ said a pleasant and familiar voice. ‘Mine has had its moments as well. Shall we get drunk?’

Flea stepped out of the shadow of the room toward him. He chuckled and poured wine into a glass and handed it to her.

‘What’s the problem? Pickpockets deserting you for barricade duty with the Fronde? Fewer pockets on the streets with coin? You do know there is no money in the treasury to fill noble purses.’

‘Well,’ she came closer, a small woman, barely reaching his breastbone and took the glass from him. She patted his chest, ‘that’s where you come in my dear


	33. The Challenge

**Author: Mordaunt**

_When, in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes,  
_ _I alone beweep my outcast state…_

_(William Shakespeare, 1564-1616, Sonnet 29)_

 

Captain d’ Artagnan promised the wine will be the best they can find in Rouen. The tavern is called “Lion d’ Argent.” It is an old timber framed building, located at the Rue du Petit Mouton, a narrow, paved back street, not too far from the Abbatiale Saint-Ouen. The owner, a man called Monsieur Coignart is a distant cousin of Madame d’ Artagnan.

“To M. Marchal!” the Captain declares and they all raise their glasses. The newly commissioned Musketeer finally attempts a real smile.

“You are finally a brother in the Garrison!” the Captain exclaims. It occurs to him that these are the very words with which Captain de Treville welcomed him to the Musketeer Garrison long ago. It was the day he pierced that brute, Labarge with his sword and won the royal competition for M. de Treville’s regiment. It is a day he will never forget, for it changed his entire life.

“Exactly!” M. de Thierry agrees, his quiet voice now animated by a hint of mischief, “but don’t get your hopes up yet, M. Marchal. You still get to do the double shift, cleaning the stables. It is a matter of seniority!”

“I see,” M. Marchal retorts. He turns to M. de Rohan: “When does this ‘M. Marchal the new Musketeer’ joke end, Lieutenant?”

 M. de Rohan, raises his hands feigning innocence and gazes at his Captain with a smile: “Ah, that… Only the Captain knows!”

“The double shift at the stables is a complicated matter, M. Marchal!” the Captain says pretending to be serious and they all burst out laughing. “See?” the Captain winks, turning to Raoul, “there is a lot of excitement in the Musketeer Garrison! The double shift at the stables is a tradition we honor. It was started by Captain de Treville! I bet General du Vallon does not allow his officers half the excitement and exercise my Musketeers enjoy!”

“Indeed, no Captain,” the young man replies laughing. “Speaking for my entire regiment, we would be grateful if no one ever reminds the General about all this excitement of stable cleaning and double shifts in the Musketeer Garrison…”

“Perhaps someone should,” M. de Thierry interjects. There is mischief in his voice, but his eyes, Raoul notices, tell another story. He senses it again, that hostility, which is impossible to understand: “Many in your regiment, Vicomte, would benefit from such an exercise in humility…”

M. de Rohan raises an eyebrow, looking at his friend askance. He motions to interrupt M. de Thiery, in case he embarrasses himself before the Captain in his attempt at a provocation. The Musketeers and the regiments of M. le Prince are always involved in some challenge or other, but this, M. de Rohan feels, is out of place. Thankfully, M. Marchal’s interjection saves the Lieutenant: “I cannot imagine General Vallon would ever consider such an exercise… even if Captain de Treville demanded it!”

“General Vallon may not,” Captain d’ Artagnan retorts, “but Porthos would never question his Captain’s orders. We all worked that double shift, M. Marchal. I did, the General, the Prime Minister…”

The young men glance at each other furtively but it is M. Marchal who voices their utter disbelief. “The Prime Minister? That is not possible…” he whispers.

“Your father too, Vicomte,” the Captain continues pretending not to have seen the look in his men’s eyes nor heard the comment.

Raoul laughs. “For my father, I believe it!”

“When your father was Captain,” d’ Artagnan says, “all he had to do to persuade young recruits who expressed aversion to this honored Garrison tradition, was to give them one of his stares…”

“I think I know that stare, Captain!” Raoul exclaims and they both laugh.

“The Prime Minister…” M. Marchal repeats, his voice now very serious. “If that is the case, Captain, perhaps we should not be talking about it? The Prime Minister cleaning stables is not something we should be discussing in public…”

“M. Marchal,” the Captain retorts. “Your devotion to the Prime Minister is commendable. But remember he was once just like you: a soldier and a Musketeer. Loyal to his Captain and his regiment… Best sharp shooter in France too…” the Captain adds turning to M. de Thierry, who lowers his gaze. Raoul swears the young man is blushing although he hides his face well in the dim corner where he has chosen to sit.

“I hope I will live up to his expectations one day, Captain…” the young Musketeer says. “If you ask me, in our latest encounter, he put me to shame…”

“I bet he loved that,” d’ Artagnan thinks. Aramis would never relinquish his old title as Best Sharpshooter in the country, and probably enjoys the competition with this young ambitious Musketeer. D’ Artagnan’s thoughts are interrupted by M. Coignart, the tavern owner. “This arrived for you, Captain” he says, handing him a sealed letter. D’ Artagnan’s heart skips a beat: it is a letter from Constance. He dreaded leaving her alone with Alexandre in Paris. He has tried not to think of the danger in which she could find herself, should the mob attack the Garrison as retribution for the Queen and the young King leaving the city. He stands, unable to force himself to wait. “This is important,” he tells the men.

“Of course, Captain!” They all stand up respectfully. “Thank you for joining us…” M. Marchal says with much emotion. “You did me a great honor tonight, Captain!”

“Serve your King, M. Marchal,” d’ Artagnan says, “and be loyal to your comrades. They are, after all, your family now. And don’t waste all your earnings on drink and dice tonight, Messieurs,” he jokes. 

He opens the letter the moment he steps into the street. It is dark but a pale moon in the clouded night sky affords enough light:

   

> _“Dear Love,_
> 
> _I write in haste for things here seem to change by the hour. I want to assure you that we are safe, Alexandre and I. Your men have courageously repelled one attempt by the crowd to enter the Garrison already. I will not pretend I am not worried. It would be a lie and a stupid one. But I do not blame these poor people either, my love. They are frightened, starving, and they feel betrayed. Alexandre and I shall remain here, protected by your men, as we agreed. But I must consider an alternative to our plan in case things fall apart. I know you will not like the next part, for it involves someone I am certain you disapprove of. I speak of M. Grimaud.”_

Grimaud…. Lucien Grimaud! The man who murdered Captain de Treville! D’ Artagnan has heard that the man survived. That for years now, he has been one of the people the Queen protects, calling them her privateers: glorified pirates, mercenaries, and cut-throats. What is Constance doing with a man like that? Upon second thought, it does not surprise him. Constance always sees the best in people. D’ Artagnan trusts her instinct. Still, that does not make him less worried. He reads on:

> _“M. Grimaud has the power to protect us now. I hope that despite your disapproval of the man and his ways, for he has many faults, you trust my good judgement on this matter. He is a harsh man but there is decency in him and he is a man of his word. Of course, I would rather you were here but I understand you must do as you are commanded and protect the King. I will write again, if I can._
> 
> _I worry about you. I hope you are safe. I miss you terribly._
> 
> _Constance_
> 
> _PS: Alexandre slept all through the night yesterday despite the riots!_

 

D’ Artagnan hurries to the barracks. Constance’s letter troubles him. One line in particular: “ _M. Grimaud has the power to protect us now.”_ He reads a great deal in that last word. In a lawless city left to militias and the mob, “now” denotes more than danger. “Now” is a threat. “I must get back into Paris,” he thinks as he paces up and down his room.

***** 

“Well, Vicomte,” M. de Thierry says. He leans back on his chair and shuffles a deck of cards in the manner of street magicians. “Time to bet your good earnings. Three-card trick! Find the lady! What say you? Do you have the stomach?” In the dimly lit tavern Raoul cannot see the Musketeer’s face clearly. Still, the glint in his eyes is unmistakable, as is the fact that both M. de Rohan and M. Marchal exchange meaningful glances, as if they want nothing to do with this game but are eager to observe it. Raoul is intrigued. Besides, it is time, he decides, to get to the bottom of this disapproving and mysterious M. de Thierry.

He shrugs with a smile: “Two livres?”

De Thierry pulls three cards out of the deck: a three of Diamonds, a ten of Hearts, and the Queen of Spades. “Satisfied?” he asks Raoul who signals for the game to begin.

De Thierry turns the three cards face down on the table and begins to move them around with mesmerizing dexterity. He suddenly stops: “Find the Lady!” he prods Raoul.

Raoul is absolutely certain he has followed that Queen of Spades and her circuitous wanderings in the hands of the Musketeer. He picks his card: Three of Diamonds!

“That is not possible!” he exclaims. “I will try again, for another 2 livres!”

“There we go…” M. de Rohan whispers to M. Marchal who nods, in full agreement.

The same scene plays out over and over: 30 livres worth. It is M. Marchal’s turn this time to attempt to put a stop to it. “How about another game, Messieurs?”

“One more time,” Raoul insists.

“Friend,” M. Marchal interjects. “Believe me, you cannot win this game. None of us has ever won. Ask M. de Rohan too!” From the other side of the table de Rohan signals that this is true.

“One more time,” Raoul insists. “Just one!”

De Thierry lays the cards on the table again, moving them around with his hands. “Find the Lady!” he cries and he taps on the table with his left hand, to underscore the challenge. Raoul keeps his eyes on de Thierry’s eyes instead. He motions as if he is about to pick a card, but doesn’t. He grasps de Thierry’s right hand instead, turns it around, and pulls a card out of his sleeve: It is the Queen of Spades.

“Found her!” he says quietly.

De Thierry springs to his feet, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “How dare you?” he growls.

Raoul remains seated, his voice astonishingly calm. He shrugs: “The game was to Find the Lady. I found her.”

“You are an arrogant novice, Monsieur,” de Thierry threatens. “Someone must teach you manners.”

“De Thierry sit down!” de Rohan exclaims.

Raoul is determined to push this conversation as far as possible. It occurs to him that provoking M. de Thierry carries with it a certain satisfaction that is as compelling as figuring out the man’s character. “And I suppose that someone would be you, Monsieur?” he scoffs. “Permit me to point out how unlikely that would be. You are a cheat.”

De Thierry pulls his sword from its sheath.

“Enough!” de Rohan interjects standing up too. M. Marchal does the same. “M. de Thierry, M. de Bragelonne!” he exclaims also, “this is just a card game!”

“Oh, it is more than that.” Raoul says, still seated. “It has been more than that since the day we first met…”

“Enough both of you!” de Rohan demands. “This is an order, M. de Thierry: put your sword back! M. de Bragelonne, stop your provocations. I am your superior officer!”

“As you wish, Lieutenant,” de Thierry says, sheathing his sword. He silently bows, and leaves the tavern. The rest of them disperse soon after that, M. de Rohan and M. Marchal returning to the Musketeer barracks, and Raoul on his way to his room in the Prime Minister’s estate. The night is damp and cold, a pale moon above, and the smell of rain in the distance. Raoul welcomes the cold air, after the heated argument in the tavern. It was a mistake on his part, he now thinks. It did nothing to enlighten him about M. de Thierry’s intentions, and probably damaged the new friendships he had come to value in this, his new life.

He suddenly realizes he is not alone. He hears footsteps. M. de Thierry hurries behind him.

“I thought you might want to continue our conversation about manners,” the young Musketeer says as he approaches Raoul, his hand still on the hilt of his sword.

“I have no intention of fighting with you, Monsieur,” Raoul replies quietly. “No matter how much you provoke me. We played a card game. I won. That is all.” 

“That is not all though, is it? You did not just win. You made a point to insult me.”

Raoul is aware that his quiet manner enrages the young Musketeer and decides to sound as aloof as possible. He is also certain that there is more in de Thierry’s anger than the embarrassment of a lost card game. It is about reputation of course but also about something else that Raoul cannot still quite grasp.

“If I insulted you, Monsieur,” he says, “I apologize. It seems to me, both of us must accept the consequences of our words and actions tonight. You must perhaps work on perfecting your game. I must restore my friendship with M. de Rohan and M. Marchal.”

“In other words, you refuse to fight!” de Thierry scoffs.

“I have no quarrel with you, Monsieur” Raoul replies in a similar tone.

“Your kind thinks you are so much above the rest of us, don’t you, Vicomte?” de Thierry exclaims.

“Ah, now we come to it,” Raoul thinks. “I do not care about dueling, Monsieur,” he retorts. “I am a reluctant swordsman. Have always been one. If I must fight a duel with you, I need a very good reason.”

“Then, I will give you one,” de Thierry whispers, walking closer to Raoul now. “How about a duel with your father’s bastard? Think about it, Vicomte! You know where to find me.”


	34. Flea Makes a Deal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While the Queen and Musketeers wait in Rouen and consider options, the people of Paris are caught between rebels and royal guards - and suffer the consequences of rebellion. When an old friend asks for help, a man steps forward.

_‘Bout time this town had a new sheriff,’ (The Stranger, High Plains Drifter)_

 

‘You want me to steal government grain and flour,’ he said wearily, fisting his hand and rubbing his forehead.

‘Flea….’

‘I want you to steal it…back!’ she clarified the task. ‘The guards stole it from the farmers and the storage sheds at the mill. I want you to get it back…for the People.’

‘Oh – of course the _People_ ,’ he rolled his eyes at her lofty tone of reverence. ‘Why don’t the _People_ ,’ he said with exaggerated emphasis, ‘steal it back themselves? Why are you asking me?’

She waved her hand absently, ‘you know _these_ people – farmers, merchants, laundresses, bakers – what do they know about organizing a theft of this scale? They need you Lucien,’ she leaned forward, ‘too many are starving. The Daughters are trying to help, but they don’t have enough bread.

_There - is - no - grain. There - is - no - flour!_ ’ She spoke these last words forcefully to emphasize her point.

He leaned back on the sofa and stared at the fire in the brazier. The room was warm, the wine was excellent, he had been enjoying his conversation with Flea and forgetting about runaway blue-eyed girls from Bicetre for at least a short while – and then Flea brings up starving orphans at the Court, black-market grain and flour sales, a corrupt government, Fronde leaders fighting with the Queen over their rights and no one paying attention to the starving masses in Paris.

‘Do you think I don’t know any of this?’ he had asked her. “I have given money to Father de Paul and the Daughters…’

‘I know you understand all of this and more,’ she interrupted. ‘I need your help Lucien. I am trying to feed as many as I can in the Court.’ For the first time her voice wavered, ‘I have buried my friends and more – many more – will die soon.

She looked up at him, her blue eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears, ‘I don’t know who else to ask,’ she said plainly and looked down at her hands.

He sighed heavily, stood and walked to the window to stare down at the street. Here, in his world, life proceeded in an orderly manner – much as it had before the rebellion broke out. The Queen and her court had left Paris – but on this street where he ruled – the fleeing of a Queen from rebel mobs was met with an indifferent shrug and a return to the task at hand. Only his absence would ripple the waters of the Seine.

‘What do you know of theatrical troupes?’ he asked abruptly, changing the subject. Flea looked up at him questioning, ‘we have them in the Court from time to time. Why?’

Surprised, he turned back to her, ‘when? where?’ Could it be this easy? Could he find her in the Court? He stared hard at Flea who looked back at him puzzled.

‘Why do you ask Lucien?’ Suddenly her face cleared, ‘this is about your daughter,’ she said and stood up to walk towards him. ‘You have learned something of importance!’ her eyes were wide with excitement. Quickly he summarized his meeting with the Matron.

‘We searched the Court for her – but did not think of the theatrical troupes,’ Flea exclaimed. ‘Friquet and I can find them for you.’ She grabbed his arm, ‘you are close Lucien!’

‘It may not be her,’ he muttered and shook his head not wanting to hope where hope might not be warranted

‘If not, you will know!’ said Flea firmly. ‘Your daughter will be no ordinary girl. This we already know,’

‘If she is part of a theatrical group in Paris – I will find her,’ declared Flea. ‘Will you help me? With the grain?’ She watched his face anxiously. Bargaining with Grimaud was always a risky business, even for old friends.

He had already begun to think of where stolen grain and flour would be kept and guarded. Where was it hidden? How did the guards move it? How many bakers would be needed to supply the Daughters adequately to feed the lines of starving people. How many wagons needed…how many horses…best time of day for…his mind was moving among the problems and finding solutions, making alterations…he couldn’t use farmers and merchants to lead this. He would need his men to train and command. Where were the Germanic mercenaries? They might be brought back from Le Havre…they had the guns needed and the discipline to organize…

He looked at Flea and her eyes lit up. She could see the gleam in his green and gold eyes. She laughed and threw her arms around his neck, ‘oh thank you!’ she cried.

His mouth twisted in amusement, ‘you are too excited at the prospect of hanging with me,’ he said wryly. ‘you know Sophia would never forgive you.’

‘Reason enough for us not to fail,' said Flea.

>>>

‘How many are there?’ asked Flea pressing her face closer to the window to see into the street below.

‘Six,’ replied Lucien. He was standing hands on hips over his huge desk studying a map and frowning.

‘That many…’ Flea mused watching the men striding up the walkway from the docks.

‘Four too many,’ said Lucien. ‘But they like to travel together. The twins never separate.’

‘Twins? How do you know which are twins? They all look like twins she thought – big bearded brutish men, seasoned warriors and lacking loyalty to any government.

‘I hope you are certain of their loyalty to you,’ she said watching the men move toward the tavern.

Lucien shrugged, ‘more or less.’ He glanced at her, ‘possibly,’ he returned to the map and to making notations on it.

‘What?’ she was alarmed at his lack of concern about these giant warriors. More or less loyal? Possibly loyal? ‘What is wrong with you?’ she demanded anxiously.

‘Well then – probably loyal,’ he hedged and smiled at her, ‘I think they like me,’ he said optimistically cheery in the face of her worry. She widened her eyes at him and shook her head in disbelief.

‘Good Lord,’ she muttered, ‘are you sure about this? She turned to Lucien. ‘They may terrorize our bakers and fishmongers.’

Lucien chuckled. To his mind the German mercenaries were exactly what was needed – trained, well organized experienced fighting men. The remnants of the last century’s legendary Germanic landsknechts would throw some well needed organization into the motley mob hanging around the barricades and strutting through the streets and fear into the remnants of the palace guard. Particularly those who held the sacks of grain and milled flour.

He looked at the men waiting in his office. Flea had selected them herself. The most trustworthy she had told him. He wanted as small a force as possible. Rumors spread like wildfire among and between the mob and royal guard. Advance knowledge of an attack would not be helpful.

The weight of heavy feet pounding up the stairs shook the floor of the office. The assembled group of citizen rebels looked toward the door anxiously. The door was flung open and a mountain of a man filled the doorway. He had a broad face half of which was covered with a full yellow gold beard that matched the heavy thatch of hair covering his head. His piercing blue eyes stared out from under thick bushy brows that were snapped together in a frown as he stared at the men in front of him. He was broad as a full grown oak, his muscular arms straining against the sleeves of his leather tunic. Two pistols were tucked into leather straps that crisscrossed his massive chest and two more were slung across his shoulder. An enormous sword was sheathed at his side.

He stopped short at the sight of the men around the large rectangular table and the men behind him crowded onto the landing muttering among themselves.

‘Martin,’ said Lucien, ‘schon dich zu sehen.’ The big man swung his gaze toward his employer, his fearsome face cleaved into a smile and he stepped forward to grasp Lucien’s hand.

‘Grimaud,’ his deep voice rumbled, ‘wie geht es dir.’ He turned back to speak to a man behind him and then his perfect double stepped around the other men walking toward Lucien, smiling broadly, his amiable face a contrast to the severe countenance of his twin brother.

‘Gunter,’ Lucien clasped the big man by the shoulders, ‘you get bigger every time I see you! ‘ The mercenary roared with laughter, `Ja genau das, was du brauchst Lucien!‘

Lucien laughed with him, ‘you are right my friend, you are just what I need!‘

The other men filled the room and walked toward Lucien, their booted steps reverberating against the wood floor. Lucien shook the hand of each man, exchanging a few words and a guffaw at a shared joke, slapping their shoulders. He was the only man in the room tall enough to look them in the eye.

Martin was looking over Lucien’s shoulder and he turned around to find Flea standing behind him. He turned back to the mercenaries who were staring curiously at the tiny woman who was little more than half their size. They glanced as one to Lucien who shook his head, ‘Nein!’ They shrugged and nodded not looking again at the woman.

Lucien waved the mercenaries toward the table and the maps and the men waiting there. ‘Let’s get started.’

An hour later he leaned back in his chair and looked around the table at his motley troops – two merchants, one blacksmith, a chimney sweep, and two fishmongers, one of whom looked familiar. Behind them stood the mercenaries, hands held loosely over their pistols or swords. Occasionally one of the smaller men at the table would crane their head around to look at the tall stand of men, who looked back at them without expression. They looked back at each other and at Lucien with brave and worried faces.

‘Questions? Remember, these men will lead you through the drills and review the plans for each storehouse,’ he reminded them sternly. ‘Pay attention and we will get through this without difficulty or unnecessary violence. Two days.’

He stood at the window watching the rebels move off into the city and the mercenaries into the tavern below. He turned to Flea.

‘What?’ he asked of her frowning face and pursed mouth. ‘Do we really need them?’ she asked tentatively. She was hesitant of questioning his experience and authority.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘they could do this job without your fishmongers. But they must be willing to do more than shake their hoes at the royal guards. Those men can train them, turn them into more than a flailing mob without discipline or ability to secure anything. Isn’t that what you want?’

‘I want bread,’ she declared. ‘And bread you will get,’ he replied. ‘And then you can decide what else you want.’

‘What are these?’ she indicated the small wooden flagons on the side table. She picked up one, ‘it’s empty.’

‘It won’t be when we use it to blow the doors of the storehouses,’ he said.

‘Won’t we be heard?’ she asked. ‘Won’t it be known what we are doing? Suddenly, Flea sucked in her breath and looked at Lucien with new awareness, ‘they will know we have gunpowder!’

‘Yes,’ he said, taking the container from her and rolling it between his hands, his mouth twisting into something between a smile and a grimace, his eyes sparking ominously.

‘The Queen will know. The Musketeers will know. They all will know.'


	35. A Wolf in Wolf's Clothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ignored by warring nobles and royalty, the people of Paris are starving. An unlikely savior emerges and forges an unusual alliance of the bold and brave to enact a daring plan to feed the hungry. Celebrated by the people and their patrons - a new 'King' of Paris is crowned.
> 
> >>

The four small explosions reverberated in the cold night air. Immediately, duty officers mustered their ranks and raced to the barricades that separated royal guards from citizen guards. Soldiers on both sides brandished all manner of weaponry and shouted orders or in heated defiance. Others roused from their sleep by the noise of the blast leaped from their slumber and dressed hastily to join the others to push back at whatever was intended by the blast.

Joseph, dressed from head to toe in a dark hooded cape, tightened his hold on the bridle of the startled mare. She jerked her head and rolled her eyes fearfully at the explosion, her breath steaming and curling into the cold night air. He rubbed the horse’s neck and spoke in low and steady tones to quiet the animal. He looked down the empty street at the fish-monger who was at the second wagon – also working to calm and quiet his horses. No lights appeared in the darkened windows of the buildings along the street. There was no sound or movement from those inside. Most residents would assume either the rebel or royal guard combatants were staging another attack and stay safely out of sight. Joseph breathed a sigh of relief and hoped it wasn’t temporary.

A large figure of a man stepped around the corner of the building and whistled at them. Joseph and the fishmonger jumped onto the benches, lifting the reins of their jittery horses and drove their wagons forward slowly. They rounded the corner and pulled even with the yawning hole where the heavy door had been. Look-outs were stationed at each end of the street. A mercenary stood in the center of the street watching the look-outs and the activity within the building. Men were moving into position, dust and smoke pouring out into the cold night air. Suddenly men were emerging from the building carrying sacks and dumping them into the beds of the wagons and returning to the building to shoulder more sacks. They moved in an efficient and steady pattern. Joseph and the fishmonger stood in the wagon beds sorting and stacking the sacks. Within minutes the building was emptied, the men had disappeared into the night, covers thrown over the wagon beds and they were driving away.

Lucien was sitting on the top of a loaded wagon as they bumped along to their destination. His steward, Yusuf had magically managed to bring him his usual morning cup of kahve – he never knew how the young man did these things – but as he sipped the hot thick sweet brew, he thought that of all the treasures he had brought from Istanbul – Yusuf was by far the best.

He was well satisfied with the evenings results. The small controlled blasts had blown the reinforced doors of the four warehouses creating a diversion but localized enough to not reveal their locations. The sound had sent remaining guards to locations where it was assumed the citizen mobs would attack - who obliged them by showing up to fight. The mercenaries had dealt quietly and swiftly with guards at the warehouses. Their recruits, trained and drilled for the night’s mission, had performed well and the removal of the grain and flour had been done with Germanic efficiency. The grain was on its way to the mills and the flour to the bakers. The brief burst of activity that took place under cover of the timed blasts would soon cease, although the combatants slinging rocks and fists and jabbing at one another at the barricades would continue for some time. Men roused from their sleep to fight rarely returned to slumber so easily.

Flea was sitting on the bench with the driver, flustered and rigid with nervous excitement. She had found the entire escapade to be the most nerve-wracking thing she had ever done. Her long history of criminal experience on the streets of Paris had not prepared her for what they had done tonight. Only the presence of the huge mercenary who kept her tucked behind him at all times served to calm her nerves. She knew that Lucien had probably given the man instructions about her. Not for the first time was she grateful for Lucien’s commanding and irritating intrusions into her self-reliance and independence. Tonight, she had decided it was his most endearing quality.

Lucien turned to look at Flea. Her head was swiveling in all directions in anxious expectation of an appearance by the enemy. She was wrapped in a cloak against the cold night and holding a long gun that was pointed rather haphazardly in the general direction of the fishmonger. Lucien leaned over and tapped her on the shoulder, ‘you don’t intend to shoot our driver, do you?’ he tipped his chin toward the gun. Eyes widening, she jerked the gun to the other side and glared at him. He chuckled and sat back on his seat of flour sacks.

A few minutes later they were in the alley-way behind a row of bakers. Men were already there and quickly unloaded the last two wagons. The bakers were provisioned and setting their kitchen help to work. Repatriated flour would soon disappear into loaves of bread, rolls and pastries to be sold at very high prices, sadly due to grain shortages and the ongoing embargo, to the royal guard and the palace.

The Daughters of Charity would receive the rest.

Joseph drove his empty wagon into the yard. Stable boys ran to unhitch the horses and take them into the stable. He secured the wagon, threw a bucket of water into the bed to eliminate any trace of grain or flour and jumped down from the bench. Lucien walked toward him clapping his hands softly, ‘well done young man.’

He took the boy by the shoulders and gave him an affectionate shake, ‘now don’t tell me that wasn’t fun!’ he said. Joseph ducked his head, glowing inwardly but self-conscious under his master’s beaming approval, and laughed too.

‘Come on,’ said Lucien, ‘let’s celebrate the restoration of bread-making in Paris,’ and he threw his arm around the boy’s shoulders to walk into the tavern and join the others.

>>>

There was a rap at the door and Lucien looked up from his desk as the door opened. Paul stuck his head through the open doorway, ‘there is a lady to see you – downstairs.’ He handed Lucien a card and Lucien’s eyebrows rose in surprise at the name imprinted in elegant script on the card. He looked at Paul who shrugged his shoulders and canted his head in agreement. It was not often that a Duchess came calling on Lucien Grimaud. Unless of course, it was his wife.

Lucien stood and followed Paul down the stairs. There was a large carriage, the ducal crest emblazoned on the door, pulled by two magnificently matched greys. The driver was standing by the horses gripping the bridle and looking anxiously around him as though he expected the horses to be stolen out from under his firm hand. A burly footman stood at the back. He could only imagine their displeasure at bringing their lady to this neighborhood.

Lucien walked into the tavern to retrieve his visitor. The lady was seated at a table near the window, her maid at the table behind her. The few men scattered among the tables were staring at her curiously. The innkeeper had brought her a glass of wine and was standing nervously by her. He breathed an audible sigh of relief at Lucien’s appearance.

The Duchess of Aiguillon sat with hands folded calmly in her lap, as gracious as though she was sitting in her own elegant drawing room. She was looking out the window, seemingly fascinated by the activity in front of her. Lucien approached the table and looked out the window at what she was seeing. Riders were progressing carefully along the street, weaving around slow-moving carriages and drays lined up awaiting their cargo. Thronging the streets and walkways were seamen shouldering their travel bags, dock workers pushing wheeled carts laden with crates, captains, rivermen, merchants, document laden clerks going between offices and the barges and women moving quickly to legitimate tasks or sauntering to attract the gaze of a man. Boys zigzagged their way among the traffic carrying messages or letters or delivering meals or doing other errands. It was early afternoon and the street was at its busiest. None of this energetic commerce would appear outside the window of her home in her fashionable neighborhood.

At the sound of his approach she turned to him and smiled, holding out her hand, ‘Monsieur Grimaud,’ she said in a pleasant melodic voice. ‘It’s my pleasure to meet you.’

She was a woman beyond her middle years and of medium height. She must have been very beautiful as a young woman and she remained lovely. She was still pleasingly shapely, her skin smooth, her well-formed mouth and intelligent sparkling blue eyes marked with a few lines suggesting an amiable nature, her dark hair luxuriant and simply styled.

He took her small soft hand briefly in his, ‘the pleasure is mine Your Grace,’ and bowed slightly to her.

She turned back to the window, ‘I do not believe I’ve ever been on this street before. Such industry,’ she exclaimed, delighted by what she was watching, ‘it’s quite exciting isn’t it!’  
He glanced out the window and back to her. He smiled, ‘would you like to see the dock?’ he asked. ‘There is a barge just arrived and unloading.’

‘Oh, I would like that,’ she said, enthusiastic at the adventure and stood, turning to speak to the tavern keeper. She thanked him for his hospitality at which he folded up his legs in an uncertain combined curtsey-bow attempting to be properly courteous to his illustrious guest. He grinned at Lucien - idiotically happy.

Lucien watched the Duchess as she took her leave, smiling to calm the flustered tavern keeper. He knew many noble women – his wife was from one of the oldest and most noble houses in France. An aristocratic woman, he thought, was both like a work of art, and the ultimate manifestation of smoke and mirrors. They were elegant, refined, seeming lovely even if they were not actually lovely. They glided through a room with the air parting gently around them, to not disturb their composed countenances, or styled hair. Their skirts rustled as they walked, conjuring seductive images of what lay beneath those layers of silk and satin. They were skilled at the invention of witticisms and trained from birth to easily summon a few sentences of conversation to put the most irritable or unsociable man at ease. It was both an art and a survival skill.

He led her across the street and down the wharf to the docks where men were unloading the barges. She listened carefully as he explained their work and the impact of the embargo. Many roads were blocked, and the river was the best means of getting goods and food into Paris. She asked several questions about the men who were shouldering the huge crates, some of whom seemed to be foreigners. Did they travel to and from Paris with the trade? Do they earn enough to support families, and do they teach their children to read? He found her interest to be sincere.

Finally, he turned to her, ‘how can I be of assistance Your Grace?’ he asked solicitously, ‘what brings you here today?’

‘You already have been of assistance to me,’ she exclaimed. ‘I have come from Father de Paul, with whom I work closely in service to the poor in Paris. I wanted to thank you personally for the benefit you have done for the people in this city.’

He was taken aback and was momentarily speechless. He had a message from Father de Paul, but hardly expected a visit from the Daughters of Charity. He did not recall seeing the Duchess at the homes he had visited in search of his daughter.

‘My assistance is vastly overestimated,’ he said. ‘I believe some grain and flour simply went astray.’

‘Well,’ she replied with a wry smile and a twinkle in her eyes, ‘it is lucky for many that you were able to discover and retrieve the lost grain and flour. We shall have bread for some time.’

‘I am glad to know it,’ he said simply. They stood together in comfortable silence watching the river flow past, the men moving rhythmically lifting and transferring crates and barrels from barge to wheeled carts. The air was crisp despite the sun high overhead in a clear blue sky. It was a magnificent day and even at a distance, the sounds of an occasional pistol or galloping horse, or cries from street clashes could not mar its soothing beauty.

He turned to her, puzzled at this contented moment they shared – strangers to each other. He wondered at her deciding to visit him rather than write a letter or send a message via Father de Paul or the Daughters of Charity.

She tilted her head to him and smiled, ‘I thank you for showing me this enterprise. I have so little understanding of it and find it most interesting. Now, I have used too much of your time Monsieur. I must take my leave.’

He walked her back to her carriage and handed her up the step and through the door. She pushed down the window and leaned out extending her hand to him, ‘you will kindly give my regards to your wife Monsieur.’

‘I did not know you and my wife were acquainted Madame,’ he replied. Sophia had never mentioned the Duchess of Aiguillon to him.

‘I knew her when she was very young. Her mother and I were friends,’ she said, a wistful look passing across her gentle features.

‘I would be pleased, when next she is in town, if your wife were to call on me.’

‘I will encourage her to do so Your Grace,’ he said earnestly, ‘I am sure she will be pleased and grateful to accept your kind offer.’ He had barely a moment to register his surprise at his own pleasure and gratitude for her invitation to Sophia. She was speaking to him again.

‘If I can be of service Monsieur – I insist that you call upon me. May I have your word that you will do so?’ He was charmed by her gentility and kindness. He also sensed, under the dignity and decorum that was hers by nature, pulsed an intelligent mind and formidable will. He clasped her hand firmly.

‘You have my word Your Grace.’ He watched the carriage roll away. He did not expect to see her again and for a moment he felt a keen pang of regret.

>>

The priest entered the library just as the meeting was ending. Madame de Marillac and the Duchess of Aiguillon stood together conferring quietly over several documents. Women filed out of the room in twos and threes, nodding to the priest as they left. He waited patiently.

The two women finished their discussion and Madame de Marillac moved toward the door. She stopped when she reached the priest. ‘How does it seem?’ he asked her.

‘Better than it was several days ago,’ she replied. ‘I am to Les Halles to see to the provisioning of the bakers. We need additional sites for distribution, it would ease some of the congestion. But all together, the situation is improved.’ He watched as she exited the room, closing the door softly.

He walked to the large table where the Duchess was still making notations on the documents arrayed in front of her. The table was set in front of tall windows, the late afternoon sunlight weak and dispirited in the darkly paneled room. A fire was burning in the fireplace and candles already lit. She looked up at him as he sat down in a chair by the fire, rubbing his hands to warm them.

‘All in hand?’ he asked her. ‘I believe so,’ she replied, ‘at least for the present and near future.’

The scratching sound of the quill against paper was the only sound in the silent room. He watched her work, ‘you delivered our thanks to our benefactor?’ he asked.

The Duchess lifted the paper to blow on it gently, replacing it carefully on top of the others. She lay down the quill and capped the inkpot. She stood and walked to the fireplace, sitting in the chair opposite the priest folding her hands carefully in her lap.

‘Yes,’ she said studying her hands. ‘An interesting man.’ The priest made a noncommittal sound and said nothing. He studied the fire and looked back at her, waiting for her questions.

‘You say he grew up very poor around Royamount Abbey,’ she said, confirming what he had told her previously. ‘The woman he lived with, his mother a ….’ she groped for an acceptable word.

‘Yes,‘ he said, ‘to both questions.’ She pursed her lips considering his comments and remembering the man she had met. ‘He has been educated…somewhere or somehow,’ she commented.

‘A Musketeer and Sister Agatha saw to his education,’ he replied.

‘Ah…Sister Agatha,’ the Duchess smiled, musing to herself turning inward as though there was a private conversation of which only she could hear.

The priest watched her thoughtfully and then chuckled, ‘a strong spirit – not a woman to shrink from difficulties or bastard boys. She did well by him.’

‘He was not what I expected. It would seem his profession has not…’ she hesitated again, searching for the correct word or phrase to describe the man she had met. A capable man who could devise a successful scheme. A ruthless criminal. This was what she had been told about him. It had not prepared her for his keen intelligence, grace and self-confidence, his ease with command. He listened carefully, and his eyes were observant and well masked. But, he had let her see the occasional flash of amusement and gentleness.

‘Will he help us again?’ the priest asked. ‘I do not know,’ she said truthfully. ‘You are comfortable with his occupation?’

‘He is what we need. He is what we all need,’ said the priest firmly. ‘We cannot send a sheep to negotiate with mad dogs.'

The Duchess of Aiguillon looked amused, ‘then who do we send?’ she asked playfully.

‘A wolf,’ said the priest.


	36. A Matter of Discretion

**Author: Mordaunt**

_The doubt of future foes exiles my present joy,  
_ _And wit me warns to shun such snares as threaten mine annoy._

_(Queen Elizabeth, ca. 1568)_

 

“Thomas Hubert, Comte de Renard," de Laporte announces.

The young man who walks into the Queen’s apartments is elegant and statuesque, his face almost angelic, his long hair cascading on his shoulders in long immaculate curls the color of gold. He could be a model for a statue of Apollo, but for his pale blue eyes: there is something in their glint that is far too earthly, ambitious, and greedy. He removes his hat and bows.

“You asked for me, Your Majesty?”

“Comte de Renard, welcome to our provisional court, here in Rouen.” She is all pleasant smiles, although a careful observer might expect less geniality and more effort at candor. This is not an audience she welcomes. “I hope your journey here was safe and that your mother is content with the accommodations.”

“It was entirely uneventful, Your Majesty. My mother and I are grateful for this invitation and for all that You have afforded us since our arrival.” He bows again, but raises his eyes, furtively observing the Queen’s every movement.

She has rehearsed the next lines. She tries to sound caring. “His Majesty and I failed to send Our condolences for the recent death of your father, the Baron de Renard. It is my wish, and that of His Majesty, to repair that omission. Your family’s loyalty to His Late Majesty, the King’s father, and to me has not been rewarded as it should have been…” She recalls the Baron de Renard. She met him once, during one of Louis’ boar hunts at some godforsaken place near Aisne. She remembers that she despised the man the moment she laid her eyes on him. An old soldier who was given land and a title by Marie de Medici for doing her dirty work, and then raised himself through corruption, stealing land, and raping the daughters of his peasants. A vulgar, crude, and uneducated brute. There was another son when she first met the Baron de Renard. His name was Edmond. A boorish lout, if ever she had met one. She learned later that he was killed during some dispute over land. It was only recently that she discovered through her Secretaries there was much more to that dispute. Elegant and refined though he appears, this young Comte de Renard retains something of his father in his countenance. The same greed in his eyes, although she detects more in him, and it frightens her.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” the young Comte retorts, clearly flattered. “We, my mother and I, are at your Majesty’s service.”

“I am glad you come to it, M. le Comte,” the Queen retorts. She is eager to move this audience along as fast as possible. The very presence of this young man disturbs her to the very core. Perhaps it is his eyes: the way he raises his gaze to look at her sideways when he bows, thinking she does not notice. There is impropriety in that gaze. And something else, foul and obscene. “We may have use for a man of your talents.”

“I am ready for your Majesty’s orders,” he says.

“It has come to Our attention that your long-standing dispute over the land that once belonged to the La Fére estate continues to this day.” This is her first bait. She probes him carefully although nothing in her disinterested tone reveals it.

“Indeed, Your Majesty. My father fought for what is ours against ignorant, loitering peasants all his life…”

“It is a scandal, Comte,” she feigns concern.

“It is an affront against God and Your Majesties!” the young man sounds incensed. “And against every nobleman of this court. Whoever heard of land being handed to peasants? All land belongs to the King…” A flattering, calculated turn, the Queen observes. He is clever. Or rather, he thinks himself clever.  

“No court in France would ever acknowledge such an outrageous deed, Comte. You and your mother must be assured of Our support on this matter.” She changes her tone. A more compassionate hue is necessary: “I feel deeply for your mother. I admire her courage fighting for this land ever since your father’s death…” This is the Queen’s second bait.

“That land belongs to her by right, Your Majesty!” he declares.

“Indeed?” the Queen feigns ignorance, goading him on.

“If Your Majesty permits me to put our case before You?” he ventures.

“We do,” she retorts, “and know that I speak on behalf of the King on this matter. Both His Majesty and I are inclined to help your cause.”

“My mother is of noble birth,” the young man begins, encouraged by her assurances. “She was a companion to the Marquise de La Fére, a lady of impeccable character, who once served Queen Marie, the late King’s mother. Her husband, the Marquis de la Fére was from an ancient family of the north, with lands in Boulogne and Picardy. My mother was promised in marriage to their older son, Olivier Athos. Instead, he married a murderous wench he found in some brothel…” The Queen pretends to be shocked by the revelation. “A man of poor judgement Your Majesty…” he adds, and the Queen finds herself partially agreeing with his assessment.

“My mother became affianced to his younger brother, Thomas, instead. By that time the family had lost most of its lands and titles, due to the father’s misplaced political alliances…” Not so much misplaced, the Queen thinks, remembering the events, but definitely miscalculated. What man would risk the fortune of his entire family for a matter of principle?

“Thomas de la Fére was an honorable man,” de Renard continues. "Loyal to his family. Responsible and upright. He revolted against his brother’s shameful marriage. He demanded that his father disown his older brother for the dishonor he brought to their house. He would have succeeded, but his life was cut short, by murder.”

“Good lord!” the Queen exclaims pretending she is aghast. “A tragedy!”

“A crime that has remained unpunished, Your Majesty! The woman who took his life, that wench the older brother had married, is still living despite my poor mother’s efforts to have her executed as she deserved. Had Thomas de la Fére survived, he would have inherited his father’s estate and my mother would be its mistress. In the eyes of God, the land and the title belong to my mother!”

It did not happen that way at all, the Queen thinks. Her Secretaries unearthed no will, documents, or deeds indicating that the old Comte de La Fére ever considered disowning his older son. Of course, she knows all about the murderous wench, who married the young Comte de la Fére. Still, she wants to listen to this version of the events, for there is much in it that she finds convenient for her design. “Your mother is a woman of great courage, Monsieur,” she declares.

“She is indeed, Your Majesty!” he says, his voice now animated by righteous indignation. “She was left with no fortune or future, a victim of that murderous criminal and her cruel, unfeeling husband. When the man returned to La Fére years later, he dared to defy God and King by handing whatever was left of his estate to his peasants. My father, the Baron de Renard, a loyal servant of Your Majesty, had strived for years to bring peace and the law to those lands. The affront when these lands were passed to ignorant peasants was more than my father could bear. My mother too. That is what brought them together. They fought this battle for a long time. My poor mother continues to fight alone now, striving to bring the law and the King’s peace and prosperity to a land abandoned by a man who insulted God and King with his actions…” He bows deeply, his face flushed. The Queen is certain that she has managed to hit a nerve.

“I am struck by your story, M. le Comte,” she says. “All the more because it is about this very man, the Comte de la Fére, and his wife that I must speak to you…”

“Your Majesty can be assured of my discretion!” he exclaims with fervor.

“The King and I are certain of your loyalty and courage, Comte,” she says. “What I must ask of you requires both.” He bows, accepting the compliment, eyes gleaming with anticipation. A dog, the Queen thinks, who has caught the scent of raw meat.

“The Comte de la Fére is a Frondeur with many and powerful allies. We know he plots against Us but the extent of his plotting and treason is something We cannot prove without evidence. We cannot also prove the identity of his closest allies despite Our suspicions. We know that he has engaged his wife in this enterprise, and as you indicated, the punishment for her many crimes is long overdue.” She notices the young man’s eyes flashing with rage. Now for the final blow, she thinks: “We fear also that his son is part of his plotting…”

“Son?” the young man’s features turn pale. The blow has found its target. “What son?”

“Oh, my dear Comte,” the Queen exclaims with fake compassion. “You did not know? The Comte de la Fére and his wife have a son. He is about your age. The Vicomte de Bragelonne.” 

“Your Majesty,” the Comte de Renard replies, forcing himself to sound unaffected. “Forgive me…”

“Oh, it is completely understandable, Comte. You have every right to be indignant for all this injustice against your family. We are here to remedy that.”

“I am ready to serve Your Majesty,” he retorts. “I can get any evidence Your Majesty requires against the Comte de la Fére, and ferret out all those who conspire with him.”

She nods with a satisfied smile. “The Comte de la Fére is a very cautious man. He lives in relative seclusion, and can hide his tracks well. He has eluded Us for a long time. He has managed to protect his allies very successfully. The Vicomte de Bragelonne on the other hand is an affable young man, who leads a public life both in Paris and here in Rouen. He is the aide-de-Camp of General du Vallon, and a close friend of the Comte de Guiche, frequenting the most fashionable Parisian salons. Lately, His Majesty has taken a special interest in M. Bragelonne so discretion would be absolutely necessary. But it seems to me that the best way to pursue the Comte de la Fére, his wife, and all those who assist them is to begin with the Vicomte.”

“Consider it done, Your Majesty!” the Comte de Renard exclaims.

“You will need allies yourself in this pursuit, Comte,” the Queen advises. “Here in Rouen but mostly allies in Paris.”

“I am honored to count the Comte de Wardes (1) among my childhood friends!” he declares with pride. The Queen shudders at the name. A man of no scruples, a known libertine, and the son of one. She wonders suddenly if all this is a terrible mistake. She wonders what might happen if Aramis discovers her scheme or if her son finds out. But her son is not yet King, and Aramis, perceptive though he is, will never understand what a mother is prepared to do for her children. She recalls the crowds threatening the lives of both her sons but a few nights before, and the brazen audacity of that woman, their leader, who pretended to be a baker's wife, strutting into the King’s very bedroom. “The Comte de Wardes is a well-connected gentleman,” she retorts, her tone impenetrable, “he will be able to introduce you to the most exclusive Parisian circles…”

“I shall do as you order, Your Majesty and with the utmost discretion!” he retorts. “I am honored to be chosen for this service.”

“I have no doubt you will serve Us well, Comte,” she says. “Rest assured that you will be recompensed as you deserve. Assure your mother also: not merely about the La Fére estate, but about all lands and titles that belonged to the old Marquis de la Fére once. Everything was returned to the crown after his discomfiture. It will be easy to persuade His Majesty that you and your mother are the rightful heirs of that heritage, not the Vicomte, who should, one expects, fall from grace with your assistance and after your revelations…” That is her final bait.

The Comte de Renard bows deeply, and motions to take his leave. “Your Majesty should expect to hear from me soon. I promise I shall discover everything.”

“Take care, Comte” she retorts, relieved to see him go.

“Once you begin upon a path of scheming and death, you will never be able to turn back,” a wise woman once advised her. Now she is after that woman, her husband, her son, and all those they protect. It is a war she thinks, but she is not the one who started it: spies from Venice sent word that the Duc de Beaufort has arrived on a ship captained by that woman’s cousin.

“May the best woman win, Madame!” the Queen thinks.

\----

“So, the bitch has a son…” Catherine de Renard walks about in the apartment given to her at the estate of the Prime Minister in Rouen, playing with a fan.

“Yes. It was one of the baits she used. She used a few more. I pretended to fall for each and every one of them…” The Comte de Renard lounges in a large armchair with a glass of wine in his hands, his feet resting on a dainty footstool.

“You are so clever, my love,” Catherine says kissing him on the mouth. “Clever, handsome, and deadly…”

He shrugs, his tone disinterested. “Oh! Before I forget! She sends her condolences for the Baron’s death!”  
  
Catherine smirks. She sits on the armrest, embracing her son. “We must thank her profusely,” she says and they both laugh.

“The old disgusting swine…” de Renard scoffs.

“Not half as disgusting as his son Edmond…” she retorts. “You are blessed never to have been associated with that creature. I should have shot him right through the head rather than through the heart. He would have died faster. Some people do not deserve to be alive…”

“And yet the old fool married you after that…”

“He was no fool. Just a greedy pig. He would have sold his own mother to get his hands on those lands and the title, and I was his only chance. Those lands were always rightfully mine,” she gloats. “And now they will be yours. Everything will be yours, my love, my beautiful young Marquis…” Her fingers are entangled in the curls of his hair, and her lips touch his brow.

“Except now there is that Vicomte de Bragelonne…” He speaks in the tone of a petulant child.

“On this particular matter, do not concern yourself, my love. The Comte de la Fére shall never have any heirs. I vowed that long ago, when he married that murdering whore. I was successful the first time. The second time will be easier…”

It is his turn to kiss her on the mouth. “You are my one and only teacher, Madame!” he declares. She is about to reciprocate but is interrupted by a knock on the door. They both assume different postures, sitting apart, he with a book in his hands, and she with her embroidery. “Enter!”

It is one of the Queen’s ladies in waiting. “Madame de Renard,” she says curtsying. “Her Majesty requires your company this evening.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****The story uses elements from season 2, episodes “Return” and “Trial and Punishment.”****
> 
> The backstory for Catherine de Garouville (de Renard) and the de la Fére family is based on “Past Forgotten, Past Remembered” (posted in AO3). The location of the la Fére estate in the north is based on Dumas: there are indirect indications in the novel that Dumas places the fictional estate of la Fére somewhere close to Lille. There is in fact a region called la Fére at Aisne/Hauts de France. The story here follows Dumas’ fictional character and not the historical Armand d’ Athos (Armand, Seigneur de Sillègue, d'Athos, et d'Autevielle.) Autevielle is in Bearn. The historical Athos was a Gascon, just like d’ Artagnan. 
> 
> (1) François-René Crespin Du Bec (1620-1688), Marquis de Vardes, Captain of the Cent-Suisses. He was bold, scheming, and a consummate liar. However, in her Memoirs (iv, 279), Mme de Moteville calls him “charming.” He was implicated in the scandal known as the “Spanish letter” in 1664. Dumas makes him the villain in the last three of his novels (“Vicomte de Bragelonne,” “Louise de la Valliere,” and “Man in the Iron Mask”.) His father (also called “Comte de Wardes”,) appears in the first novel (“The Three Musketeers”) as a lover of Milady de Winter and is related to Cardinal de Richelieu for whom he works. D’ Artagnan injures him gravely on his way to retrieve the Queen’s diamonds from Buckingham in England (this is not a storyline in the BBC series.) His son is also called “Comte de Wardes” in Dumas (so I follow that here) and he hates d’ Artagnan and the rest of the four including Raoul. It is implied in Dumas that this young de Wardes may be Milady’s son with her old lover. This is a plotline that Dumas never fully develops but was clearly planning to use in the same manner as the Francis Mordaunt plotline in “Twenty Years After.” De Wardes is mean and petty but never becomes the kind of deadly and well-developed villain that is Francis Mordaunt. The latter is the son of Milady and Lord de Winter (or Athos?) As part of his many intrigues, de Wardes seriously injures the Comte de Guiche at a duel, which de Guiche fights as a proxy for Raoul (who is exiled to England by Louis XIV) for the honor of Mme de la Valliere.


	37. Mercenaries Can Be Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The story continues in Rouen and Paris as a Queen and a pirate lay plans to further their interests and protect those they love..._

As Joseph watched two of the biggest men he had ever seen square off in a wrestling match, half-drunk, half-dressed and half-serious, he thought that mercenaries could be fun. The two dogs of war were bent over swaying, their arms hanging loosely and then suddenly swinging out to snatch the other by surprise and drag their hapless victim into the dirt. They were growling and laughing as were the four others who were sprawled against the barrels and bales that were stacked against the barn. Taunts and insults were flying by those watching and those trying to fight. Messenger boys, tavern workers and stable-boys, were standing to the side and in the open stable door, leaning on rakes and pitchforks exchanging grins and watching fierce fighting men sway and stumble and laugh uproariously at their jokes and each other. Wagers were being placed on the outcome.

Joseph was the first to see Lucien and turned to signal the boys. They slid back through the door into the stable or toward the tavern and their work. The leader of the mercenaries saw him second and gave a low command. All six men quieted and watched him approach. He was carrying a rolled document under his arm. He walked directly to Martin and spoke with him for a few minutes. The mercenary nodded and spoke again to the others.

Lucien turned to leave and glanced at the two men who had suspended their combat and then toward the stable door where the boys had withdrawn to the shadows. He grinned, ‘mein Geld ist bei Gunter,‘ he called out loudly. The boys who had favored Gunter smirked at the others, the men guffawed in return, slapping Gunter on the back as he tried to pull on his clothes. They collected their weapons.

>>

He looked around the table. The men were leaning forward studying his map and detailed schematic drawing. The mercenaries were smiling and nodding, their eyes gleaming at the job in front of them. He tapped the map to indicate again the location of their two targets – one for him and one for them. They followed Lucien’s finger as it traced their route.

`The approach and escape is the same. We use the river. I do not expect any resistance there, but wagons will be nearby if needed. The mansion is directly across the street. We take that first as a diversion.‘

He looked at Martin who looked positively radiant. Guns, gold and plunder. Enough to make a mercenary‘s heart sing. He smiled happily at Lucien,‘gut! sehr gut Lucien!‘

Lucien smiled at the map. The Port de l’Arsenal almost begged to be raided. Especially by a pirate. It was practically set on the water – easy enough to float a barge equipped with the best crew, fastest oarsmen and most sav captain working the river right up to it. There were two boulevards bordering it’s western and eastern sides – plenty of room for wagons and horse teams. It was also not as well guarded as it should be, most likely due to a shortage of royal guards who were kept busy by roving bands of rebels and the belief that none of the street rabble had the temerity or the brains to stage a successful assault. Or that they would even know how to load and use the guns. That might have been true. But no one had reckoned on Lucien Grimaud.

It was also fortuitous that across the wide boulevard to the west of the arsenal was a magnificent mansion that belonged to the Marquis de Royan, a distance branch of the house of La Tremoille. This was of no particular interest to Lucien or the German mercenaries, except that as a very wealthy family – the mansion would be filled with enough treasure to make a pirate weep. The mansion was also empty. The family had prudently retreated to their country estate to await the outcome of the rebellion. They left their mansion guarded by their house staff and several guards well equipped to turn away the street rabble but woefully insufficient for German mercenaries. They were not rabble.

‘Martin,’ Lucien addressed the mercenary leader, ‘good?’ he asked again. The plunder would go to him and his men. The guns to Lucien. The big man nodded, ‘besser als brot,‘ he and his men laughed and Lucien laughed in agreement – it was much better than bread.

A knock at the door and Paul entered carrying two message in his hand and a scowl on his face. He handed both to Lucien who recognized the hand on one letter. The second was unfamiliar. He opened the first letter from one of his spies in Rouen.

`From the Chevalier,‘ he said, `news from Rouen.‘ Paul frowned at the dark look that passed across Lucien’s face, his mouth tightening in anger. `What has happened?‘ he asked Lucien, `something in Rouen?‘

`Not something,‘ answered Lucien grimly, `someone.‘ He said nothing further, but opened the second letter and scanned it quickly. He got to his feet.

`Shall I go with you?‘ asked Paul, worried about Lucien going alone in the streets. Mobs could be unpredictable and therefore dangerous – even for the mob‘s newly crowned King of Paris.

`I’ll handle this,‘ said Lucien who reached for his riding coat and hat.

>>

Constance peeked out between the two sides of the curtain to the street below. The crowd was much larger than the one yesterday and twice the size of the one several days ago. The sturdy gates that led into the garrison yard were firmly closed, the thick oak bar dropped into place across the width of the door frame. Along the rooftops of the garrison buildings, Musketeers and cadets patrolled, keeping their eyes on the chanting mob below and at places where a man could scale the garrison wall and drop into the yard. They were careful to not point their guns directly at the crowd, fearing to incite it further. There were fewer than ten Musketeers in the garrison and an equal number of cadets. They were outnumbered by more than ten to one.

Behind her the nurse cooed soothingly to baby Alexander as he fussed and squirmed in her arms. He was watching his mother with anxious eyes. He had been restless for several days, ever since this human seige had begun in front of the garrison.

Constance turned back to the nurse and smiled reassuringly, `let me take him,‘ she said and gathered the baby into her arms. `You should go and rest,‘ she told the nurse. The poor woman was badly frightened but did her best to calm herself and help with the baby. Constance wished she could risk talking to the crowd and sending her out the gate to go home, but she couldn’t take the chance that the people chanting and throwing rocks would not take out their anger against the woman. The nurse was trapped here with the rest of them, unable to leave and return to her own home and husband.

Husband, though Constance. Hers was miles away with the Queen and the Court. She tried not to be angry at him. He had to do his job, his duty was to the Queen and King. He could not shirk that responsibility. He would not have left them here if he thought they would be unsafe. She tried not to worry. He did not think the crowd would assault the Musketeers directly. He had been wrong.

And after she told herself all of that she was angry and worried. She carried her baby in her arms while an angry mob banged day and night on the garrison gate and lobbed rocks over the wall. It was enough to make her half-mad with fear. Several had tried to scale the wall and had been repelled by Musketeers, but sooner or later, one would make it over and then another and another. There was a room in which she could lock herself, the baby and nurse. But how long could they stay there? The garrison had its own well, but their food stores were beginning to run low as were grain and hay for the horses and cow. She was using their limited medical supplies to tend to the injuries sustaining from flying rocks. Problems were mounting by the hour.

The baby had quieted and she laid him down in his bed tucking a blanket around him. She watched him for a moment, a fierce flush of protectiveness surging through her. It was time to do more than watch from a window and wonder what was going to happen to them.

She stepped out onto the balcony and made her way down the stairs to a large table in the yard. Several Musketeers were there already, spooning up soup and drinking ale. Pieces of bread were scattered in front of them. They ate silently. They had been working in shifts throughout the day and night and there was little time to sleep. They glanced up at her approach.

She smiled brightly at them, `good,‘ she said, `I came to be sure you are eating enough.‘ The men nodded and went back to their meal, too tired to banter with her. She caught the Lieutenant’s eye and motioned him to walk with her.

Lieutenant Cordey was a tall serious young man, the son of a man who had died as part of the many plots of Richelieu to destroy the Musketeeers. The younger Cordey was devout and loyal to his mission and his Captain. The orders he followed were to defend the garrison and protect its inhabitants. It might be difficult thought Constance, to persuade him to do what she wanted.

`How do you judge the situation?‘ she asked the young man, `the crowd seems larger today. They seem to have brought an extra supply of rocks,‘ she tried to make joke. Neither of them laughed. Several cadets had serious gashes in their heads from the projectiles.

He stood in front of her, arms crossed over his chest and nodded. `Do not concern yourself Madame. We are quite safe.‘ She pressed her teeth together and smiled, `our food supplies....‘

`We have adequate stores for the next few days,‘ he interrupted. And after that? she wondered. Where would they go to look for food? Markets appeared and disappeared according to the success or failures of the various embargoes. There was only one place she knew where she could be sure of finding food. Even melons.

She watched him walk back to the others. He was courteous to her and she knew he would do his best to protect her and Alexander. She pushed her hair back in frustration. Ten Musketeers, a handful of cadets, food stores low, a mob at the gate and her husband a long distance away. She looked again at the small group of fighting men and made her decision.

She walked to the stable and found one of the boys. `I need you to take a message,‘ she said.

>>>

Lucien reined in his horse at the end of the street. The crowd chanting at the garrison gate was larger than he expected. Several men in the middle of the crowd were holding up a heavy wooden beam and driving it into the gate, producing little actual movement of the gate, but creating a loud thudding noise at which the crowd cheered. He could imagine what it sounded like on the other side of the gate. He urged his horse forward, hand on his sword.

He pushed his horse through the crowd, the big stallion nervous, ears flat, rolling his eyes and baring his teeth. The horse was stepping high and sliding right and left, bumping and knocking into people. Angry shouts and cries went up at him and then he heard it, `Monsieur Grimaud! It is Monsieur Grimaud!‘ The shouts continued as he rode slowly through the crowd, hands held up for him to grasp as he made his way to the front of the crowd. The men holding the battering ram moved aside for him and he saluted them as he passed. When he got to the front he turned his horse to face the mob the horse snorting and pacing restlessly. The crowd moved back.

`Friends,‘ he said, `inside this gate are a few women who found work and orphan boys recruited from our orphanages,‘ the crowd muttered in reply.

`Orphans and women!‘ he cried out, `who cares for them?‘ heads were nodding and fists raised toward the gate.

`Are they your enemy?‘ he asked, `do they not only seek shelter and food – the same as you?

`Do not turn on your own – this what they want!‘ his captain’s voice boomed – the one his men could hear over the fiercest storm wind and 40 foot waves. His fist shot into the air in the general direction of the palace. `They want you to turn on each other,‘ he shouted, `do not be fooled.‘

`There are Musketeers in there,‘ shouted a man. `Only a few,‘ agreed Grimaud. `to save their wine!‘ The crowd laughed uproariously.

`I have better wine for you at the barricades,‘ declared the new king of Paris, `to go with your bread!‘

The crowd roared in approval. `Grimaud!‘ went up the shout, `Grimaud! sauveur de paris!‘

‘Go home my friends, your fight is not here, ’ he cried out, ‘the women here must be under my protection – or my wife will make me suffer! ` The crowd laughed again, a few people in the back starting to drift away down the street. Slowly the crowd began to disperse, the men shouldering the oak log and carrying it down the street singing a song of rebellion as they marched toward the barricades.

Lucien watched them move off and when the last had turned a corner he dismounted and rapped on the gate. He heard the movement of the beam being lifted out of place and then the gate swung slightly open.

He chuckled as he looked down at Constance. She was peering out from behind a Musketeer who was scowling at him, hand loosely held above his sword.

‘Stand down young man,’ he admonished the frowning Musketeer. ‘The king of bread baking has come to rescue you.’

>>

The carriage was parked to the side of the yard, the horses already stabled. As the boy ran out from the stable to take his reins, he sent him a questioning look.

‘Madame arrived about little more than an hour ago,’ he said. Lucien took the stairs, two at a time.

She was standing behind his desk, studying the map. Her arms were folded over her stomach, a protective posture against the plan of attack and violence displayed before her. She didn’t look up at his opening the door nor when he closed it softly behind him. He didn’t move into the room but leaned against the wall watching her.

Sophia ran her fingers over the map, sighed heavily and looked up at Lucien. His arms were folded across his chest and even at a distance she could see the yellow gold lights gleaming in his hazel eyes. Her eyes roamed over him. His features were as familiar as her own and yet often she studied him. He was unlike most men. How was a man beautiful? Was it his chiseled face – the perfection of the geometry in the angles of firm jaw and decided chin, high cheekbones and strong brow. Lashes to make a woman weep and his mouth to make her blush with imagining. His long dark hair swept his collar begging to be stroked. He was tall, broad and muscular where a man should be, moving under his powerful strength with casual grace. He stood, leaning against the wall filling the room with his presence as he did her life. She would be foolish indeed to think he did not know the commanding magnetism that flowed around him or the breathless effect of his singular attention. She knew how women reacted to him.

Did she really believe he was never tempted? Would it matter? A man’s interest could wane with time. He could still love her, but desire changes, becoming diminished under the weight of ordinary days and commonplace concerns. Comfortable familiarity was sweet and precious for its dependable qualities, warm with security and predictability. But these qualities do not stir the blood as in days when desire and passion swept away the ordinary and commonplace.

She lifted her hand to smooth her hair. Why was she having these thoughts? She had come here to understand what he was doing. The message she received from D’Artagnan referred to gunpowder and taking control of the city. She was worried – was he in danger? He could be persuasive. She glanced at him again. He had not moved.

‘What is it Sophia?’ his deep voice was soft, ‘you look troubled.’ He didn’t ask why she was there – nor did he seem surprised to see her. Perhaps he was not pleased she had come, or he assumed she had a right to ride an entire day as she wanted, to go where she pleased and of her own free will.  
He pushed off the wall and started to walk toward her. Immediately she took several steps back.

‘I must talk with you,’ she said. ‘I do not understand what I see here,’ she tilted her chin toward his desk. ‘Or rather, I understand it too well.’

‘If you already understand it, then perhaps we do not need to talk,’ he moved around a chair, ‘we can try a different form of discussion,’ he suggested with a knowing smile.

‘First we talk,’ she said firmly and raised a hand to stop him. His eyes glinted in amusement.

‘First, second, third,’ he said, ‘whatever you want,’ continuing his slow stroll towards her. 'But afterwards,’ he said equally firm. 

She stepped around the table, putting it between them, ‘I am not so easily distracted,’ she warned and frowned at him. 'I have had a troubling message from Rouen. D’Artagnan writes that you stole grain from the royal guard and used gunpowder. I believe the Queen and the Musketeers feel threatened. What are you doing? I heard your name as I rode through the streets. You are celebrated – I don’t understand any of it. We must discuss …’

‘We will,’ he interrupted her, ‘but I see now that we must have a different conversation.’ He circled around the table. ‘Something is troubling you,’ he said, ‘I want to know what it is.’

‘It is as I say,’ she rolled her lips. He shook his head, ‘do not dissemble with me Sophia.’ He was slowly walking her backward.

She bumped into the wall behind her and set her palms against the wall. He slowed until he was directly in front of her.

‘Lucien, I don’t want…’ her voice trembled slightly, and she didn’t look at him. ‘We must...’

‘What don’t you want?’ he said softly and ran his knuckles gently against her cheek. He moved closer, leaning into her to kiss the soft skin below her ear, ‘you don’t want this?’

He set his hands on the wall on either side of her face, and looked down at her, ‘What is it?’ He was puzzled, his eyes searching her stony face for answers, ‘I have missed you,’ he murmured, nuzzling her neck, ‘why do you not come to me now?’

She breathed in his scent, mixed with his tobacco, horses, the citrus fragrance of the soap he favored. His chest brushed against her, his heat warm and familiar. Strong fingers were tracing a line along her jawline and his lips followed on her neck, ‘you don’t want this?’ She clamped down hard on her lip enough to taste blood.

‘You are impossible,’ she almost laughed at her futile effort to resist him. He lifted her chin, ‘whatever you want is possible with me – there are no rules,’ she felt the rumble of his deep voice. The meaning of his words sent heat flaring deep and low within her and she pressed her palms harder into the wall behind her. He trailed his fingers down her throat to the notch at the base of her throat and leaned in again to kiss her there, his tongue moving over her skin. The small involuntary sound in her throat seemed to echo throughout the room. She felt his smile against her skin.

‘You wanted that,’ he kissed her along her shoulder, his hand moving down her side over the curves of her waist and over her hips. Slowly his fingers moved to rake up her skirts. He ran his thumb over her lip frowning at the drop of blood and licked it from her lip trailing his tongue against her closed lips, his eyes not leaving hers. She breathed in sharply and her lips parted.

‘Tell me what else you do not want,’ he murmured as his mouth covered hers.

>>

She became aware of him slowly, the solidity of him against her bare back, the possessive weight of one arm across her, the other pillowing her head, the feel of hips and legs curved around her. He held her against him, warm and secure, and waited for her to return to herself. She was sleepy in his arms drifting in a satiated haze. He stroked her hair from her flushed cheeks and brushed his lips against her neck. She hummed softly.

‘You will stay here,’ he said softly. ‘We have been apart too long. We move into the house tomorrow,’ referring to the de l’Croix family mansion in the fashionable Marais. He never stayed there alone. Her eyes fluttered but he was already answering her objections.

‘Henry and Collette will look after the children and they adore them. There is an army of governesses, nurses, maids, the house steward and plenty of brawny footmen. The cook will feed them all the sweets you never allow, and they will tramp the fields with Henry getting muddy and finding all manner of crawling things and bugs. The governess will see to their studies.’

She made a murmuring sound of agreement and rolled over in his arms to lay her cheek against his chest and her arm across him, draping her leg over his. He stroked her back in long lazy strokes.

‘I have met a woman, the Duchess Aiguillon, who works with Father de Paul. She invites you to call on her. I have a plan to keep the garrison safe from the mob. Constance would be delighted to see you. Flea is searching for theater troupes in the Court.’

He tilted his head to look down at her, ‘there are other things for us to discuss.’ It was time to tell her of Father de Paul’s confession.

He paused, considering his next words carefully, and then, ‘there is also news from Rouen – of a meeting that was held with the Queen.’

‘I need you here Sophia, with me.’


	38. Bianca

**Author: Mordaunt**

_Go and catch a falling star,_  
_Get with child a mandrake root,_  
_Tell me where all past years are,_  
_Or who cleft the Devil’s foot,_  
_Teach me to hear mermaids singing,_  
_Or to keep off envy’s stinging…_

_(John Donne, 1633, Song)_

 

 

 

> _“Have met an excellent young man here in Rouen. He almost single-handedly protected the life of an old friend and his family, ensuring the safety of all—Charles”_

 

Athos recalls the encounter with the civilian militia that was looking for Raoul, as he reads d’ Artagnan’s cryptic message. There is much that the message does not explain, but one thing is clear: whatever Raoul did, whether planned or by chance, it ensured that no one is going to be arrested for the escape of the Duc de Beaufort, at least not at the moment. What is not clear is if he should tell Alessandra.

****

She woke up a day after they arrived at Bragelonne, still exhausted and feeble. She was surprised to find herself back home. “It was the safest place to be,” he explained, although in truth he was not certain at all. He was expecting M. de Comminges to show up at their doorstep any moment. “Do you remember anything about the night at St. Denis,” he probed, “or our journey here?” She closed her eyes and signaled she did not. “It is confusing,” she whispered. “I am not sure what really happened, and what I dreamed…” She sighed. “I thought I dreamed…” she opened her eyes stopping herself midsentence. She realized she was about to say something he must not hear.

He smiled: “Lucien?” He saw astonishment in her eyes and it pleased him that he could still surprise her. “You did not dream that. He was here. He left yesterday morning.”

“How did he…?” she was bemused. “Did you…?”

“Yes, I did. He helped us escape.” he said. He had thought about this moment a great deal and he was still not sure about how much he would have to reveal: about finding Grimaud’s letter, about her journal…

“So, you knew he helped us at the river with the Duc’s escape,” she said smiling. “Silly me. Trying to keep the two of you from encountering each other all this time…”

“If he were any other man…” he began, immediately realizing his mistake. It would make him sound like some jealous, petty, lover. But since he started he felt compelled to complete his thought. He lowered his eyes: “If he were any other man, I would say he loves you…” He looked up, prepared to meet her penetrating gaze sneering at his weakness. He found understanding instead and amusement. It was perplexing.

“I love him too,” she just said.

“He is very loyal to you. He said he owes you his current life…”

“That is just Lucien being dramatic,” she scoffed. He could hear her old self in the tone of her voice, and he considered it a good sign.

Her color returned slowly, along with her spirits. Some days were better than others. On the good days they walked together, sometimes all around the park to inspect Athos’ favorite parterres. She thought it amusing that he liked gardening, and knew all about bulbs, rosebushes, and insects. “You sound exactly like Raoul,” she teased him, and he basked in the comparison. Those days he felt happy as never before. Most days she was too tired to walk. On bad days, he would fret she might not survive. He would sit next to her all night, awake, making sure she breathed. 

It was one of the latter days when he stood tentatively by her door while Dr. Basot examined his patient. He had been asked to leave but could not make himself do it. “Madame,” he heard the doctor ask, “I need to know if you suffered from this ailment before. It is important. It is an ailment that never affects a patient just once. It might help me to know how you overcame it.”

“No, not with my son…” she whispered. Athos could barely hear her voice.

“What about before that?” the doctor insisted. Before? Athos was struck by the question.

It took a while for her to respond. Perhaps she was too weak. Perhaps, Athos thought, she was as struck by the question as he was. Athos could hear her gasp, as if in pain. He forced himself not to walk into the room and put an end to this fruitless questioning.  She did not need to be made upset in this manner.

“I never thought of it,” she ventured, speaking with difficulty, and Athos stood still, not even daring to breathe. “I was very sick then… But I thought it was…” she gasped for air again. “I … I had an accident… I thought it was all because of that. I was very sick for a while…”

There was a child before Raoul? Athos listened, quite incredulous.

“And how did you overcome it, Madame?”

“I did not…” Athos could tell she was weeping. “It was early on. I was not pregnant for long. I lost the child. It was for the best…”

A line from her journal returned to Athos’ mind. It had haunted him since he first read it. Her memory of her own execution:

   

> _“He never saw the flowers. He was not there. It was for the best.”_

There was an uncanny similarity with her words now. It suddenly occurred to him that she wrote nothing in her journal for months between the execution and the time she started working for Saracen: the time she met Grimaud. _“I write it down so that I may forget it_ ,” she had written on the journal’s first page: a declaration of power over a life so unjust. Were the months when she remained silent after her execution a time she had chosen to always remember?

He decided not to ask or probe. Never to breach the subject at all. Perhaps there was a child with someone else: Lord de Winter or some other man she had met at Madame Solange’s house. She was entitled to her secrets, and he already felt embarrassed for having invaded them. He sat next to her that night, observing her every breath. And very early the next morning, the short message from d’ Artagnan arrived with a special envoy disguised as a traveling wine merchant.

 

*****

He rolls and unrolls the message in his hands. If she asks about Raoul again, he will tell her exactly what he has been telling her all this time, he decides. That he is with Porthos in Paris. He knows that she will be incensed when she finds out he kept her in the dark about everything. But he knows too little to offer an explanation that would appease her worries. Besides, he is troubled himself: his son is in the hands of the Queen and her allies. The perfect hostage. What was Porthos thinking? At least d’ Artagnan is there, although his loyalty should be with the King… No, he decides. He cannot tell Alessandra any of this. Not until he finds out more. He hides the message in his book.

“What are you reading?” she asks, waking up. She looks rested. Perhaps this will be a good day, he thinks. He shows her the title on the spine. “Your favorite book.” She smiles and moves aside, making room for him on the bed. “Will you read to me?”

He leafs through the book, looking for a specific page and starts to read. She closes her eyes, enjoying the sound of his voice:  

  

> _“So, I stood at the gates of the fair-tressed goddess. There I stood and called, and the goddess heard my voice. Straightway then she came forth, and opened the bright doors, and bade me in; and I went with her, my heart sore troubled._ _And drawing my sharp sword from beside my thigh, rushed upon Circe, as though I would slay her. But she, with a loud cry, ran beneath, and clasped my knees, and with wailing she spoke to me winged words: “‘Who art thou among men, and from whence? Where is thy city, and where thy parents?”_
> 
>  

“You are skipping verses again!” she observes, her eyes still closed. 

“They are still boring…” he feigns an apologetic tone, and she laughs. He loves the sound of her laughter. “Alright,” he says pretending to be subdued. “I will read all of it…”

“No!” she protests. “They _are_ boring. I have always preferred your version, no matter how biased it is against poor Circe!”

“You have misunderstood me all these years, Madame,” he teases leaning towards her, and closing the book. “I have adored that devious witch since childhood…” She pulls him towards her. “More than me?” He kisses her lips, the curve of her neck where the old scar is still visible, her naked shoulder that peaks from the side of her shift. He feels her hands slip around his waist as she pulls him closer. “I missed you,” she whispers. And then, a strange thing happens. Athos feels a little push, somewhere at the side of his ribs. It is feeble at first but becomes more persistent. He sits back astonished.

“What…?”

She takes his hand and places it on her stomach. He can clearly feel it now, resolute, spirited, and playful: a small fist. 

“She likes you,” she says smiling. “I think…”

“She…? How do you know?”

“I dream of her often. I had dreamed of Raoul too. He looked exactly like the child in my dream when he was born… 

He keeps his hand on her stomach mesmerized, his daughter’s small hand reaching out to his. “What does she look like?”

“You may not like this…” she says quietly. “Pale, with dark hair…” 

“Green eyes?” he asks smiling.

She nods, “yes, I am afraid.”

“Then there is no girl more beautiful than our daughter!” he says kissing her. 

“In my dream I call her Bianca, my mother’s name…” she says. 

“Hello Bianca,” Athos whispers. 

That was the day Athos fell completely under the spell of his daughter. In later years, he would joke about how fitting it was that he was reading Circe’s song when it happened. He would remain under her spell his entire life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Athos reads from the Odyssey, Book 10 (the encounter between Odysseus and Circe.) For its significance, and the significance of the exact excerpt he reads here, in the relationship between Athos and Milady see “Past Forgotten, Past Remembered”. He begins at line 310 (So I stood… troubled) and skips a number of lines until he gets to line 325 (Who art thou..) Translation from www.perseus.tufts.edu


	39. The Blue Cloak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sixteen years ago Lucien Grimaud watched as Athos shot and killed the woman he loved. Sophia d’ la Croix was the only daughter of the noble house of d’ la Croix, an ancient aristocratic family with ties to many noble houses, including de Treville and de la Fere. Four years later, Lucien learned that she had lived although the child she carried had died. Now married for the past 12 years, Lucien and Sophia have discovered that their child, a daughter did not die._
> 
>  
> 
> _In the middle of rebellion they search for her and answers as to who was responsible and why. A message from the Captain of the Musketeers on Grimaud's actions and control over the city has reached Sophia at their estate. She hastens to Paris to try and prevent what she fears most - a return to the past._

>>>

_Your heart knows the way - run in that direction (Rumi)_

They did not move into the house in the Marais. It was very clear to her, that it was his intent to install her in the family mansion, surround her with guards, give her a few tasks to accomplish, and spend most of his time at the waterfront. He might want her with him in Paris, but he was busy – too busy to be away from the docks. Possibly too busy for his wife.

She refused to move. He was annoyed, ‘it is not appropriate for you to live in this neighborhood. You know well who you are and while in Paris you should stay in your family home.’ They were walking along the riverbank, enjoying the last rays of late afternoon sun as it dappled the river’s surface. He stopped to face her and pulled her cloak closely around her, fastening it at her neck. The breeze was cooling as the sun was setting.

She laughed, her blue iridescent eyes winking at him, ‘you forget that many it is _my marriage_ that is not appropriate,’ she countered, ‘you should not be concerned about the _location_ of it!’

‘You would be safer in the mansion,’ he argued. ‘I can place guards there…’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you will surround the house with guards and leave me there.’ He started to object but she interrupted with a conciliatory tone, ‘I will take one of the German mercenaries as a personal guard. I can practice my German,’ she smiled winningly at him, ‘I prefer Gunter – he seems to have a sense of humor.’ Lucien scowled.

He stomped around angrily for two days and in the end, it was Paul who convinced him of the practicality of it. Lucien’s primary concern was danger from the mob. If she stayed in the neighborhood he ruled, her safety was assured. The German mercenary would go with her when she traveled through the city.

He didn’t say it, but Paul knew that her daily presence would tether Lucien to what was truly important to him – and keep away the women who were circling around him. While Lucien was a man in love with and devoted to his wife – he was still a man. The women were not all whores. Rich aristocratic women were curious about the mysterious, handsome and powerful Monsieur Grimaud. His desk was littered with calling cards, his mail filled with invitations to dine and attend salons. Carriages stopped in front of his offices with perfumed women, their ample bosoms displayed in silken gowns, lowering the window asking for ‘just a word with M Grimaud.’

Lucien thought it amusing, ‘who knew bread was an aphrodisiac?’ he remarked to Paul as he flipped through the letters on his desk that had started arriving after the raid on the grain stores.  
>  
‘We have matters to discuss,’ she said in a voice common to governesses and sometimes wives as he prepared to leave for the docks. Barges were arriving, their horns sounding in the distance as they pulled closer to the wharf. He was sitting in a chair pulling on his boots.

He stood and walked to where she sat, braced a hand on the table and leaned over her, ‘you know there are men who would pay good money for a woman to talk to them in that tone of voice,’ he pressed a kiss to her forehead. She frowned at him and was rewarded with his soft chuckle and another kiss.

‘Yes,’ he smiled, ‘first, second and third,’ he teased her, his fingers stroking her cheek. They had awakened in the morning with arms around each other and legs tangled together. She held his face for a moment between her hands, ‘I am glad to be here,’ she whispered and lifted her lips to his.

Late last night, she heard the outer door open and the soft thud of his booted step. He opened the bedchamber door quietly. She felt the bed dip under his weight as he sat next to her. She pushed herself up to a sitting position against the pillows and he took her hand. The flickering candlelight cast fractured shadows over his chiseled features. He draped her shawl around her shoulders and shifted his gaze down. She reached out to run her fingers through his hair and held her palm to his cheek.

‘You look tired,’ she said softly. There were problems with the deliveries that he and several men had dealt with tonight. He nodded but was silent, his long fingers stroking her hand as he held it.

‘I learned something of Treville’s intentions,’ he started with a hesitant but resigned voice. ‘From Father de Paul.’ The Captain’s intentions – she would certainly like to know what those had been. A familiar mix of anger and anxiety caused her heart to race. Her eyes raked over Lucien impatiently, but she waited.

Lucien had seen her shot, believed her dead and blamed Athos and Treville for all that had gone wrong. Ambitious men saw an opportunity to use Lucien’s power and anger to destroy a King and they had almost succeeded. It had taken many years for them to rebuild their lives. And now, they had learned that their child had not died at birth as Treville had told her but had lived and was placed in an orphanage. It was a stunning revelation. It haunted her – why had Treville done this to her and a tiny baby?

‘Treville had arranged for her care with the Daughters and received reports. He wanted to tell you -to reunite you with her.’ She sat up straighter unconsciously squeezing his hand. ‘What? she gasped. ‘When was this?’

Lucien sighed heavily, ‘at the time that I returned to Paris.’ He released her hand and shifted to face the wall leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, holding his head between his hands. She watched him trying to make sense of his words. When Lucien returned to Paris she had been in a medical tent at the front – tending to dying and wounded soldiers. She looked toward the window. A wind was whistling around the corners of the building. It would be cold for those forced to sleep outdoors tonight without a cloak or blanket she thought. Some would not survive.

‘He changed his mind. I suppose I changed his mind.’ He was referring to the violence that erupted around Treville’s refusal of Lucien’s efforts to win his approval, to tell him that she had lived and where she was, the culmination of rejection and humiliation.

Dear God, she thought. She – they - might have had their stolen daughter back at a tender age when they might have undone all the harm of being taken from the arms of a loving mother and father. She could hardly draw a breath at the thought. As she looked at Lucien, she realized – he blames himself. She leaned forward and turned his face to hers.

‘This is not your fault,’ she said, the lights in her blue eyes darkening. ‘If Treville thought there was merit in taking our baby to someone who would care for her – because of my illness or your absence or because of his prejudice against us – he still should have told me that the baby lived. There was every opportunity to do so.’

‘You will not blame yourself for this,’ her eyes searched his. She was anxious but stern. ‘You will not take this on yourself. Swear to me,’ she demanded. He lifted his eyes to hers, his agony reflected in their glistening and nodded faintly. He rested his forehead against hers, ‘we were so close,’ he whispered, ‘and didn’t even know it.’

Early in the morning a message arrived from Flea. She read it to him as he shrugged into his tunic and picked up his cloak.

‘Shall I go see Flea alone?’ she asked him, ‘you seem very pressed today.’ He replaced the cloak on the chair and took her in his arms. She knew, as they searched for their daughter, that he worried about her. They both saw their daughter in the worst of places for a baby and a girl. The anxiety over her unknown fate was at times crushing. She laid her head against his chest. ‘I will make the time,’ he answered. ‘We shall go together to talk with Flea.

She watched from the dining room window as he crossed the street with strides that could cross entire countries. A flurry of activity was underway, wheeled carts loaded with cargo from the barges were being trundled slowly up the walkway to the waiting wagons. Empty carts were returning. He paused to talk to the men at the wagons, tilting his head down to listen and then throwing back his head and laughing at a shared joke. As Paul joined him, Lucien turned to look back at the window and raised his hand to her. The two men moved toward the docks.

Yusuf cleared his throat softly behind her, ‘your breakfast Madame,’ he bowed formally to her. Lucien had met Yusuf in his uncles’ shop in Istanbul and he had accompanied Lucien to Marseille. He had remained in Lucien’s service as his personal servant. Following the events under the cathedral they had returned to Marseille for Lucien to recover and to rebuild their lives. He had work to do to restore his business and spent long hours away. While she walked through the seaport and in the hills surrounding the city, Yusuf followed her at a respectful distance, careful not to intrude on her thoughts or privacy, carrying his prayer rug should their walks coincide with times for prayer.

‘The mail has arrived,’ he set a silvered plate next to her with several sealed letters on it. ‘Thank you,’ she smiled and sat in the chair he held for her. He stepped back and set his hands behind his back. It did no good to tell him he was released and that she had no further needs. He would only smile and remain standing with hands held behind him. She might think of something she needed.

There was a letter from her eldest daughter and one from Claudette, Henry’s wife – filled with news of the estate, the neighbors who had visited, their studies and the new kittens. Two had been kept for their barns and the others taken to the villagers who needed good mousers. Letters describing ordinary events that filled the days of her children – away from rebel mobs at barricades and scheming nobles. What would happen to them if their father were arrested for treason?

She tapped her forefinger idly on the letters, thinking back to another time Lucien had been entangled in political matters and with ambitious noble men. They had seized upon his rage at Treville and Athos and used his power for their purposes. Treville died and Lucien burned down the garrison.

She barely remembered anything about the reason for that destruction. She had a hazy memory of running, Lucien riding hard towards her holding out his hand and then…nothing. Not until she came partially awake and someone was holding her hand and singing. She didn’t know if what she remembered had really happened or if it was a dream. She drifted in dreams –some in vivid color and with terrible pain. She remembered the pain and not much more. It was Treville who told her about her baby, Sister Agatha gripping her hand. Lucien was not there, and no one told her why.

It would be four year before she would see him again.

There was an invitation from Madame d Villiers to attend her salon that evening. One letter had a seal she did not recognize. She broke the seal and looked at the signature – the Duchess of Aiguillon – it was an invitation to call on her.

‘I recall the name, ‘she had told Lucien. They were at dinner and he had told her of the Duchess’ visit to him at his office. ‘She was one of Marie de Medici’ ladies, although I think she was quite devout.’ He raised his eyes in surprise that she knew this about the Duchess. She was not often in Paris society or interested in what passed in those circles as conversation, that is gossip about each other. She preferred the society of her country neighbors and when in Paris, visited only a few houses of the ancient regime. Although they disapproved of her consort, they loved her for the sake of her family.

She nodded at his unasked question, ‘don’t ask me how I came by this information as I do not know myself. Someone must have mentioned it to me.’ She took a sip of her wine. ‘I do recall Treville telling me that Richelieu had a niece, Marie Madeleine and as girls she and my mother were friends. He must have owed her a great deal as later in her life he procured a Duchy for her.’

Perhaps she knew something of the Duchess from her mother’s letters. She and Treville had found packets of letters stored in ornately carved and decorated boxes that also held other treasures. She remembered little of her mother and as they read the letters Treville described the events or the people her mother wrote to or about in her correspondence. When Treville died, she had stopped reading the letters.

It was obvious that Lucien was curious about the Duchess although he did not say so nor did he press her for further information. She might visit her family’s legal offices. Legacies were still being held there for her from her mother. There might be more for her to learn about the Duchess of Aiguillon.

It was curious to her that a woman of the Duchess’ stature would come to this part of the city to give her thanks to a man who had robbed the royal grain stores. Even more, to thank a man of Lucien’s reputation. Regardless of how noble his theft of royal grain could be portrayed – he had still committed an act of treason. It wouldn’t be the last act of its kind and singing songs about him as the people’s ‘king’ would only serve to aggravate the Queen. If the Queen demanded his arrest, he would need supporters in powerful positions to help him win his release.

She studied the letter again. She would write back and suggest a day for her to call. She turned her head toward Yusuf, ‘would you get my lap desk,’ she asked. He lowered his eyes and smiled at the request, moving off toward the library and returning a few minutes later with the portable desk. She quickly wrote a brief letter to the Duchess and handed it to Yusuf to have it delivered.

Today she was to see Constance and her baby, and she smiled to herself as she walked to her bedchamber. Lucien had a plan to protect the garrison and D’Aragnan’s wife and child, and she was to convince Constance of its merits. She was loyal to her husband and his duty, but Sophia was confident that their sympathies for the common people, hungry and ignored, would align. It occurred to her that the Duchess, as a Daughter of Charity, might be helpful.

Her maid had laid out her dress and necessary undergarments and she studied the assembled clothing before turning to Denise, shaking her head, ‘Monsieur thinks it best to dress simply and to not provoke unnecessary interest. I must have a plain blouse and riding skirt in there,’ she waved her hand toward her wardrobe. The maid frowned, unhappy at dressing her lady as other than as befitted her status. But she turned to search the wardrobe.

Now she stood in front of the mirror in the bedchamber they shared and studied her appearance. Denise had found a plain dark riding dress and jacket. Her hair was simply plaited. She thought she looked quite ordinary – apart from her boots and gloves that were of the finest leather and her cloak. She couldn’t fix that unless she changed shoes, gloves and cloak with a same sized woman at the barricades. She would not mind losing the boots and gloves. The cloak was another matter.

Lucien had the cloak made for her. Yusuf had been present as Lucien explained to the dye-master the color must match his wife’s eyes – a shade of sun-sparkling Mediterranean blue. Not the surface blue, but the deeper hue that was found within the blue waters. The color under which the ocean, like her, hid their secrets. The poor man, chuckled Yusuf, had never been anywhere near the Mediterranean and probably couldn’t find it on a map. Yusuf laughingly told the story of the frazzled dye-master mixing and remixing his colors, bringing stacks of samples for Lucien to examine, and how Lucien - dissatisfied with them all - finally went to dye yard himself to watch the process until he had the color he would approve. The cloak was full length and from the softest wool, the hood lined and trimmed in black silk.

She looked at herself in the tall mirror – her blue eyes brilliant against the perfect match of the cloak. She was no longer a girl, unsure and influenced by those who claimed her best interest. She knew who she was – a daughter of the aristocracy – a Duchess in her own right, from an ancient and noble house extending back over centuries. She had wealth and held the authority of her family name and connections. She would use it to protect Lucien at any cost.

Messages from Rouen told of a Queen under siege. There were unanticipated additions to the Queen’s company that signaled dangerous consequences. She didn’t trust the Queen or her Court. She didn’t trust Musketeers. She didn’t trust the Frondeurs or their supporters. She didn’t trust those who stood to the side awaiting the outcome of this rebellion.

She turned away from the mirror and walked to the window looking out at the bustling activity in the street and beyond to the river. Those she might trust were from this world – whether by birth or circumstance – they worked and lived on these streets. Loyalty was earned, but it was not for trade.

This was his world and oddly enough, it was her world too. Not by birth or circumstance – but from their very beginning – it was inevitable that she would belong here with him. If there was any significance of her birth or family connections to the aristocracy, to Treville and Athos - all of it would dim with time – she had been a fleeting moment in their account and she would soon be forgotten. But here she would not be forgotten – she was entwined with his story as he was with hers.

This was his world - from abject poverty, with vision and genius, enduring brutal hard work, inspiring others to join him, forging alliances and leading men to build this enterprise. Command came easily to him – as though he were born to it.


	40. A Fragile Truce

**Author: Mordaunt**

 

_Think’s thou to seduce me then with words that have no meaning?_

_(Thomas Campion 1617)_

 

“The Comte de Renard…”

The name sounds vaguely familiar when he hears it announced in the King’s company. Aramis does not think much of it. The young man is unremarkable. No different from every other ambitious nobleman flocking around the young King to claim a position in his future court.

But then, a few days later, he walks into the Queen’s apartments, a letter in his hand, reporting that the royal grain stores have been looted in Paris. There is a much in that letter that is alarming: this was not some random, desperate action of the hungry mob. This was a carefully planned and perfectly executed operation by someone who controls an army of mercenaries. Someone with access to gunpowder far beyond what is permitted by law. Someone who, according to the letter, now rules over the city of Paris. Someone Aramis knows well: Lucien Grimaud.  

Anne is busy picking fabrics for her wardrobe, surrounded by her ladies. He decides that the news is too urgent to wait, so he enters her apartments, letter in hand, prepared to interrupt one the Queen’s most favorite pastimes. That is when he sees her, among Anne’s ladies: a woman whose pale eyes he thought disturbing since the moment he first encountered them, staring back at him through a shoddy barricade made of crumbling furniture at the village of Pinon, where Athos was once lord. He would have known that cold, expressionless gaze anywhere. The woman Athos had introduced as affianced to his late brother. What was her name?

“Ah, Monseigneur!” the Queen exclaims when she notices him at the door. She is standing before a table covered with silks and velvets. “My ladies and I are being frivolous today!” Her face shines with happiness. This is not a good time for what he has to say. Behind the Queen the woman with the pale eyes lowers her gaze. What was her name?

“Your Majesty, I…” He falters. He should have waited. The woman raises her eyes again and her gaze makes him even more uncomfortable. “…I apologize for the interruption. I shall return later.” It is all he can muster. What was her name? 

“Nonsense,” the Queen interjects noticing his uneasiness. “My dressmakers can wait. I am sure what you have to say is more important.” She dismisses her ladies with a wave of hand. They curtsy as they leave, first to the Queen and then to him.

“Ah, before you leave, ladies!” the Queen stops them all before they reach the door. “Monseigneur, I would like to introduce to you a lady who recently joined Our court from the north.” She turns now, the woman with the pale eyes, and walks back towards him. Hers is a strange beauty. Remote. Cold. Petrifying. “The Baroness de Renard, comes to Us from Aisne,” the Queen explains as the lady curtsies.

“Her Majesty has been very kind to us…” she says.

Aramis forces himself to remember…This was not her name… And then, it suddenly occurs to him: De Renard! It is in fact, a name he has heard before, also at Pinon where he first encountered this woman. De Renard was a lecherous brute, he recalls, with a son equally depraved. They raped the daughters of their farmers for sport. He remembers how he and Porthos saved a poor innkeeper’s daughter from their clutches. De Renard! The same name as the young Comte in the company of the King. A different son, with this woman? How can this be…? Aramis clearly remembers that she had shot and killed de Renard’s older son… What was her name? If only he could remember. He heard it once when Athos had introduced her. It was not “de Renard.” How could it possibly be?

“Her Majesty is always generous,” he says trying to delay the introductions enough to remember or at least make sense of her. She is impervious, her gaze expressionless, as if she sees him for the first time. “Welcome to Rouen, Madame,” he bows slightly. Catherine! Catherine de Garouville! That was her name!

“What is this woman doing here, Anne, among your ladies?” he asks the moment they are alone.

“The Baroness was invited to join Us after her husband’s death, as befits her family’s services to the crown…” the Queen sounds dispassionate. She is focused on sorting the silks and velvets spread out on the table before her.

“What services, Anne? I have met her late husband. I fought against him! He was a greedy disgusting brute who raped peasant girls for sport, and shot poor farmers to steal their meager lands…” (1)

“Aramis, it was just kindness. She is a poor widow…” She sounds disinterested and keeps her back turned. She is not telling the truth. It feels as if a cold wave envelops him. As if he suddenly is nobody; an outsider.

“Your Majesty,” he retorts, his tone reflecting hers, remote and aloof, the air in the room suddenly tense. “Your judgement on such matters is infallible.”

She turns now, alarmed by his tone. “Aramis…?” She dreaded this moment but knew it was inevitable. As it is inevitable that she will pursue her plan whether he approves or not. She is, after all, the Queen of France.

He bows, impassive and formal: “I am here to report urgent news from Paris, Your Majesty.”

She nods, silent and somber, and he continues: “The royal grain stores have been raided…”

“That lawless mob…”

“No, Your Majesty. Not the mob. A clever privateer who now controls the entire city. Monsieur Grimaud.”

“Sophia de la Croix’s husband? But he has always served our interests!” she sounds genuinely surprised.

“Men like M. Grimaud serve only their own interests, Your Majesty,” he says quietly.

“He must be arrested!” she declares with conviction.

“That is not possible, Your Majesty, at least for the moment.  Besides, M. Grimaud affords us a significant advantage. According to this report, M. the Coadjutor and his allies are at a loss: they no longer control the mob. By now all trader guilds have declared their alliance with M. Grimaud. Even religious institutions are in alliance with him: Father Vincent de Paul’s for instance. M. Grimaud feeds the poor and desolate of the city. The Fronde is left with nothing but a small militia, which is slowly shifting its loyalties towards the only man who will provide food and protection to the people…”

“And how can we use this to our advantage?” her tone is careful now, calculated. 

“By negotiating with M. Grimaud, before M. the Coadjutor or anyone else from the Fronde reaches out to him.”

“Negotiate with a thief and a pirate?” she asks with disdain. “The man who looted our own stores?”

“We have no other recourse, Your Majesty. If M. the Coadjutor manages to reach him first, we have lost Paris. There can be no King of France outside of Paris…” He would have liked to add how M. le Prince who has been winning battle after battle in Flanders, or the Duc d’ Orleans who waits patiently at Blois never having taken sides, would both be welcomed with open arms by the citizens of Paris. Both are in line to the throne. In truth, both have claims far more legitimate than either of their two sons. And then there is also that excellent M. de Beaufort, the close ally of M. the Coadjutor, now hiding in Venice. Even his claim to the throne is more legitimate. “We must negotiate immediately,” he insists. 

She reads it all in his gaze. She hears it in the tone of his voice. She knows the precarious position of her two sons. For herself she cares little. She knows that it is a carefully woven and preserved lie that keeps her son Louis next to the throne, and that it can collapse at any moment. It almost did once or twice. She has lived with this fear since her sons were born, Louis first, and then Philippe, after the King’s death: a premature birth they claimed although in truth it was not. She eases the strain in her tone and lowers her eyes but still speaks to him with formality maintaining their distance: “Perhaps Monseigneur, it is best if the one who negotiates with that man is you …”

He bows and she detects a mischievous glimmer in his eyes, his lips slightly curled: the beginning of a satisfied smile. An opening she thinks, a signal that reconciliation maybe possible in the future. She smiles too now: “It seems to me, Monseigneur, that the best way to reach out to a pirate is another pirate…” 

*****

There is much commotion at the loading block, flour now arriving along the river from as far as Charenton. The miller’s guilds have agreed to make deliveries once every fortnight. Lucien watches frowning, his hands crossed before his chest: there is too much chaos. He needs more men, or perhaps a firmer hand. How much of this flour is being stolen before it is distributed? He has received reports of petty black marketeers showing up all over the city. Joseph and Martin made an example of a few miserable souls, but greed is a powerful incentive, and starvation is more terrifying than a few broken bones.

“This is not good!” Paul voices Lucien’s concerns.

“No. We need more armed men guarding the barges,” he retorts.

“This just arrived for you,” Paul says quietly handing him a letter. The seal bears the crest of the Prime Minister of France. Paul touches the brim of his hat and bows as he leaves. Lucien breaks the seal:

 

 

> _“M. Grimaud,_
> 
> _I will not insult your intelligence with flattery and lies. No matter your intentions, your actions have ensured the safety of our citizens, and have maintained a semblance of peace, and for these services we are grateful. There are practical ways in which our gratitude can be expressed, for we have mutual interests in terms of prosperity and profitable trade. We are willing to discuss all that is possible. To do so, neutral ground must be established first, for both parties. We propose a general amnesty so that you and your associates can operate without any hindrance under the protection of our military and law enforcement, but also whereby you and your associates ensure that the city is safe for the return of the royal family. Such a truce, we believe, may benefit all._
> 
> _Duc d’ Herblay, Minister of France”_

Lucien chuckles as he reads. How times have changed! He receives royal correspondence now in the open! None of this is surprising, of course. It is surprising it took this long. A royal deal, immunity, and the promise for more profit under royal protection: clear offers, pragmatic, and realistic. The Duc is good, Lucien thinks. Eloquent in the language of commerce. A clever negotiator. He remembers him well from his old Musketeer days: smooth, slippery, and deadly. A formidable adversary then. Could he be a useful ally now, no matter how tentative? From one old pirate to another… Lucien thinks, walking back towards the tavern.

Martin is standing guard at the door smoking a pipe. “Hey, Lucien!” he exclaims the moment he sees him. “You have a visitor upstairs.”

“And you did not send word?” Lucien sounds vexed. 

Martin winks. “I thought it best to have him wait for you… and wait for a while…”

“Now I am curious,” Lucien laughs.

The man stands with his back turned looking out the window when Lucien enters. Tall and corporeal. A man of the church. “You need more armed men to protect these barges,” he comments without turning.

“Perhaps we can use your militia, Monseigneur.” Lucien retorts.

“Excellent!” M. the Coadjutor (2) replies, turning now, his shape dark against the dim daylight. It has been a gray, cold and cloudy day. “How quickly you get to it, M. Grimaud. A practical man! I have always admired men of your tenor! Men of business…” There is a hint of condescension in his sonorous voice that is impossible for Lucien not to notice.

“You have a proposition I assume?” he retorts.  

“Perhaps.” That hint of condescension permeates M. the Coadjutor’s tone now. Having to wait for Lucien was an affront. This is not a man who waits for anyone. Good job Martin, Lucien thinks and sits at his chair behind his desk, his fingers interlaced before his chest. “I am all ears, M. Coadjutor. As you observed, I am a busy man with lots to do these days…”

Lucien can see rage flashing through his interlocutor’s eyes although he hides it well. He is uncomfortable, not accustomed to such brazenness, astonished that he is not permitted to exhibit his much-lauded rhetorical skills. Perhaps he now regrets, Lucien’s thinks, his arrogant decision to attempt a negotiation inside his adversary’s territory. It is exactly how Lucien wants him to feel: awkward, angry, and uncertain.

“The city seems to love you, M. Grimaud,” he begins. “You are the people’s hero. They write songs about you now…”

It is true and Lucien finds it ridiculous. Joseph and Martin were laughing the other day, singing the latest song the children are chanting in the street:

  

> _“A Fox may steal your hens, Monsieur_  
>  _A Whore may take your coin,_  
>  _Your Daughter may rob your chest  
> _ _Your Wife may even join._
> 
> _But this is all but picking,  
> _ _With Coin, and Chest, and Chicken._
> 
> _If ever there was a Thief, Monsieur,  
> _ _If there is a Man more fear’d,  
> _ _By King, Queen, the Minister, and Loyal Musketeer,  
> _ _It is the Man who stole the grain,  
> _ _The Man who rules the city,  
> _ _Whose name means light, though he is dark,  
> _ _And shows little pity.”_ (3)
> 
>  

“Singing is preferable to rioting,” he observes. “Better for business…”

  
“But it is dangerous business, Monsieur, your business. In need of protection and powerful allies.”

  
“Such as?”

  
“Our militia for one…”

  
“I already have your militia, M. Coadjutor,” Lucien chuckles, “or haven’t you noticed?”

  
“Our protection then…”

  
“Who exactly is “us”? I am confused these days. All these noble allies of yours can be so changeable…”  
  
  
“They are like you, Monsieur Grimaud. This is a time of opportunity. They look out for their interests, just as do you…”

“I doubt they would appreciate the comparison, Monseigneur,” Grimaud scoffs.

“We are ruled by a fickle woman, a Spaniard, and a man who comes from nothing. We have a King who is not yet of age, and is raised and advised by the wrong people. What kind of King will he be, I ask you? France needs a powerful ruler, Monsieur. She needs a King right now. We can no longer wait. Our borders are being violated everywhere. Spain holds us captive through that Queen…”

“And who shall deliver us from Spain in your opinion, Monseigneur? M. le Prince?” (4)

“Why not? Or the Duc d’ Orleans….” (5) He shrugs in a manner entirely nonchalant.  
 

“Or your friend, the Duc de Beaufort, (6) perhaps, now that he is free” Lucien adds; a pointed remark.

“You are a very perceptive man, Monsieur…”

“I am a man of commerce, M. Coadjutor. Commerce is all I know. I have no refined understanding of the intricacies of your politics. Indulge my ignorance, but this what I know: that M. le Prince is loyal to the Queen, and that the Duc d’ Orleans has never ventured beyond his domains all these years. And that your ally, the Duc de Beaufort is a man of a changeable nature. So, you offer me nothing in exchange for my support. Vague promises may work in your line of business, Monseigneur but they do not work in mine.”

“I offer you the opportunity to pick the next King of France, Monsieur Grimaud. You are not just a man of commerce. You are an ambitious man. How does Kingmaker sound among your many other titles?” 

Lucien leans back against the back of his chair narrowing his eyes. “Promising… It depends on what it entails, and what it affords.”

M. de Gondi motions to the door. “I take it then, Monsieur Grimaud, you will consider a negotiation.”

Lucien remains seated as he responds, “I take it then, M. Coadjutor, that you will make me an offer I cannot refuse…”

***

“Rumor has it, you had an important visitor today,” Paul observes standing next to Lucien on the dock. It is late afternoon. The barges are still unloading. “And then that letter in the morning. I am getting dizzy thinking of how far we have all come in just a few days!”

“Don’t let that go to your head… At least not yet.” 

“What do they all want, Lucien?”

“What do you think? Our support. Each for their own purposes, none of which is ours. What they each offer however, suits us well.”

“What do you plan to do, then? How do you choose sides?”

“I do not plan to choose at all, my friend. I will give each what they ask for and take what they offer. And then we will sit back and watch them figure the rest out among themselves.”

 

\----

NOTES 

(1) Based on The Musketeers, BBC, Season 2, Episode: Return

(2) M. the Coadjutor: Jean François Paul de Gondi (1613-1679) was named Coadjutor to his uncle the Bishop of Paris in 1643 and became a cardinal in 1652. A leading figure in opposing Mazarin in the first Fronde, he rallied to the Queen’s party in the second. He is a significant character in Dumas’ “Twenty Years After.”

(3) The song is made up/fake. However, it is based on an actual song. John Gay wrote the following lyrics to a tune that John Eccles (1668-1735) wrote for the Beggars Opera (1728):

_A fox may steal your hens, Sir,_  
_A Whore your health and Pence, Sir,_  
_Your daughter rob your Chest, Sir,_  
_Your Wife may steal your Rest, Sir,_  
_A Thief your Goods and Plate,_  
_A Thief your Goods and Plate._  
_But this is all but picking,_  
_With Rest, Pence, Chest, and Chicken,_  
_If ever was decreed, Sir,_  
_If Lawyer's Hand is fee'd, Sir._  
_He steals your whole Estate,_  
_He steals your whole Estate_. (see: <https://www.contemplator.com/england/fox.html>)

(4) Monsieur le Prince: Louis de Bourbon (1621-1686) Duc d’ Enghien, became Prince de Condè upon the death of his father in 1646. Known as “Monsieur le Prince” he fought valiantly at the battles of Rocroy (1643,) Nordlingen (1644,) and Lens (August 1648.) In the autumn of 1648, he threw his military skills behind the royal cause (i.e., against the Fronde.) However, believing that he was insufficiently rewarded for his services he reacted with such arrogance that he alienated both Mazarin and the Queen. He was jailed in the Vincennes in 1650. By 1651 the political situation had changed and Mazarin was forced to release him. He immediately raised an army to rescue the young King from his advisers. He failed, refused to accept the peace of 1653 and fled to Spain where he took part in campaigns against France. He was reinstated in 1659, and retired to his estate in Chantilly. He was recalled to service in 1668 and fought his last battle in 1674. In “Twenty Years After” Raoul joins the army of Monsieur le Prince in Flanders. On his way to Flanders, Raoul saves the life of a young officer who turns out to be the Comte de Guiche (the son of the Marshal of France.) In this story, Raoul serves in one of the Regiments of M. le Prince’s army under Porthos who is a General (following the BBC series.)  

(5) Gaston, Duke of Orléans (24 April 1608 – 2 February 1660). He was the third son of King Henry IV of France and Queen Marie de Medici. He was the Duc d’ Orléans, and also called “Monsieur.” He was exiled twice for conspiring against Richelieu. After the death of his brother Louis XIII, he became Lieutenant-General of France and fought against Spain on the northern border of France. He was made Duc d’ Alençon in 1646. During the Fronde (1648-1653) he demonstrated no particular loyalty to the crown and passed with great facility from one side to the other. Once his brother Louis died, Philippe, Louis’ younger son and younger brother of Louis XIV became “Monsieur.” To distinguish between the two, Gaston was styled “Le Grand Monsieur,” and Philippe, his nephew, “Le Petit Monsieur.” Cardinal Mazarin exiled Gaston to Blois after the Fronde, in 1652, and there he died. After his death all his Orléans titles and lands went to his nephew Philippe. The BBC series includes a character named “Gaston” in season 3. That character may (or may not) have been loosely based on the Duc d’ Orléans; it is unclear because besides the name and the affiliation nothing about that character has anything to do with Gaston Duc d’ Orléans. Orléans was never disloyal to his brother and never conspired against him; quite the opposite. And of course, Orléans was never murdered. We decided to keep this character separate from whoever the series writers meant “Gaston” to be, because the historical character works very well with the part of our story, which takes place in Blois.

(6)François de Vendôme (1616-1669), Duc de Beaufort was the grandson of King Henry IV (=father of King Louis XIII) and his royal mistress Gabrielle d’ Estrèes. He was imprisoned at Vincennes in 1643 for plotting with Madame de Chevreuse against Cardinal Mazarin (=Queen Anne’s lover and possible husband, but not the father of either of her sons.) De Beaufort escaped from Vincennes on Whit Sunday (May 31) 1648.  He was known as “Roi Les Halles” (King of the Markets,) for his support of the rioting citizens of Paris. In 1653, he made his peace with King Louis XIV and later served him in the Mediterranean. He was killed at the siege of Candia (modern Heraklion, Crete.) Despite all these honors and titles, he was not particularly bright and he was known for his nonchalance and his malapropisms. Dumas uses him as a character in “Twenty Years After.” His escape from Vincennes on Whit Sunday is a major plotline in that novel. He reappears in “Man in the Iron Mask.” In this story we used the Duc de Beaufort’s escape but changed the Dumas plotline significantly. He appears in The Musketeers BBC, Season 3 briefly (The Hunger), but that character has little in common with the historical figure besides a name (same as Gaston d’ Orléans, see above.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end of chapter for notes


	41. Two Wives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucien enters a dangerous game of negotiations between the opposing forces in the conflict - who can be trusted?
> 
> A fragile peace keeps mob violence from overwhelming those inside the garrison and a plan to save it is put in place.

She bent her head over the hose she was mending. Good practical hose of the people she thought viciously stabbing her needle through the wool, thick and sensible for the coming winter months when the winter wind would blow hard and cold even up the practical skirts of a sensible woman. No silken hose to glide over her feet and legs and on up over her thighs, cool and smooth against her naked skin to entice his touch, his fingers confident and quick at her garter….

A light pounding of feet running up the outside staircase and D’Artagnan froze – or rather she froze – her wandering thoughts jerked back to where she was and where he was not. Constance tossed the garments into the basket next to the chair and got to her feet as alarm began to prick the back of her neck. Someone was here.

‘Constance,’ a woman’s voice called out to her – a familiar voice. For a half second, she stared toward the door uncomprehending. Was it possible? Her eyes widened, joy replaced alarm and her heart leaped. She was out of her chair and hurrying toward the door and then out onto the landing, her eyes alight with hopeful anticipation just as Sophia de la Croix rounded the second landing and ran towards her.

The two women fell into each other’s arms amid bursts of laughter and tears glistening their eyes. They held onto each other, not letting go. They had not seen each other for many years. Sophia gripped Constance’s arms and set her back, her eyes racing over her dear friend, trying to take in everything.

‘He said he would bring you,’ said Constance, as tears fell down her face. She was crying partly from happiness and partly from relief. ‘I am overjoyed to see you,’ clutching Sophia to her again.

‘I know it has been hard,’ said Sophia gently holding tight to the now sobbing woman leaning against her. Alone, with a garrison only partly manned by boy cadets and a handful of Musketeers. A mob at the gate, with a baby and a husband a long way away attending on another woman’s needs and whims. A flash of anger at D’Artagnan surged through her. What was he thinking? Did he know what was happening in Paris? Well he did now she thought grimly. Lucien was making sure of that.

She tucked Constance’s arm through hers, ‘lets have some tea or perhaps we need brandy!’ she laughed. ‘We have so much to talk about, but I must,’ she turned the intense brilliance of her blue eyes to Constance, ‘First - I must see Alexander.’

Constance smiled and lifted her apron to wipe her eyes, ‘yes, of course.’ They walked arm in arm into the apartments.

Sophia stood over the baby’s crib a gentle smile on her face as she looked down at the sleeping baby. ‘Oh, he is beautiful! I want so much to wake him and hold him!’ she whispered sheepishly. ‘I am completely selfish,’ she shook her head at her own foolishness to wake a sleeping baby. Constance laughed softly, her face glowing with pride and love as she watched her infant son.

They settled themselves in the small drawing room in front of the fire. They had been faithful correspondents but had not seen each other since Lucien had brought her and their two young children from Marseille to the estate near Royamount. The years fell away as they sat in companionable silence, listening to the crackle of the fire, sounds of the cadets drilling in the yard, and surrounding them all, the distant sound of rebellion.

‘You look wonderful,’ Sophia said. ‘Motherhood has made you more beautiful.’ Constance laughed, ‘motherhood has given me little sleep and plenty of anxieties,’ she said wryly. ‘But I would not trade one minute of it for anything in this world – he is my joy and happiness – our joy and happiness,’ she hastened to add.

‘Of course,’ smile Sophia. ‘The love for a child is …unique.’ She fingered her skirt for a moment, her thoughts on another child – one she had never seen. She looked up at Constance and smiled brightly.

‘Lucien thinks so well of you,’ she said. ‘He’s quite fond of Alexander.’

‘He is very different than what I assumed,’ Constance said carefully speaking of Sophia’s husband. ‘I didn’t really know Lucien, only what was said about him and what happened.’ They were silent for a moment. Against the occasional clamor from outside the garrison, the past drifted in the air around them, watery images of lethal violence and the faces of those long dead.

‘D’Artagnan grieved terribly for Treville.’ Constance was studying her hands. ‘And everyone left...’ She looked at Sophia, ‘sometimes I wonder how you and Lucien….’ she didn’t finish the sentence. ‘I know you suffered terribly. Reconciling it….’ her voice drifted off again with memory and feelings that would never be fully reconciled – for any of those caught in the violence of that time.

Sophia looked around the familiar rooms now filled with the lives of others – a family. She remembered the man who used to live here and the days before the fight under the church and afterwards. A happier memory arose, and she looked at Constance and grinned ‘do you remember Monsieur Lavoise?’ Constance looked puzzled and then her eyes brightened, ‘the house steward! his pink silk coats and matching breeches! What was that thing,’ her hands fluttered at her neck, ‘that he wore?’

Sophia held up her hand and crooked her little finger, mouth puckered in exaggerated imitation of the flamboyant man who ruled the King’s household, ‘I recall he was extraordinarily fond of lace and rather high heels and bows.’ They both laughed, ‘to match his breeches!’ they cried out together, giggling at the shared remembrance.

Constance pointed at her, ‘the cooks liked you,’ she said. ‘Athos would have starved without you.’

‘He did like to eat at the oddest hours,’ agreed Sophia, remembering a night they sat in the quiet darkened kitchen sharing half a chicken and cake after he returned from Pinon. They had talked about Anne, his father and Catherine. There were many times of close companionship between them. But were also other times - less companionable.

‘Catherine is in Rouen with the Queen,’ she told Constance, ‘now the Baroness de Renard. With her son – the Comte de Renard.’ Constance frowned, ‘did she not kill the elder son of de Renard? He married her?’ her voice rose in disbelief. Sophia shrugged, ‘she is reputed to be beautiful and he was much older.’ She waved her hand dismissively not thinking any further explanation was needed on the effects a beautiful woman can have on a man’s will – and memory.

‘Did you know Athos has a son?’ asked Constance, ‘Raoul – the Viscount de Bragelonne.’

‘I did not know,’ exclaimed Sophia. ‘What do you know of him?’

‘Athos met him for the first time in Venice. Milad…that is, Anne, did not tell him he had a son. Raoul is in Porthos’ service,’ added Constance. ‘D’Artagnan speaks highly of him and as a credit to his father.’

‘Ahh – he is Anne’s son,’ said Sophia, ‘then I should hope his mother is credited also with his good character,’ she said archly. ‘Perhaps Anne thought to tell Athos when she returned to Paris,’ she mused, ‘he was much changed from the war and there was the other woman – so she must have decided otherwise.’

‘He is apparently the very image of his father,’ said Constance. Sophia smiled at the image of the son resembling the father. ‘I am glad they are reunited,’ she said softly.

She grinned at Constance, ‘he has a growing family - they now have another child.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Constance, ‘how do you come by this information?’

‘Anne fell ill, and Athos needed help getting her home. He asked Lucien.’ Constance stared at her. ‘Good heavens,’ she blew out a breath and shook her head ruefully. Sophia nodded, ‘Lucien would do anything for Anne – I think Athos depended on it. She is with child. She smiled wistfully, ‘I would so like to see her again.’

‘And Athos?’ asked Constance kindly, ‘do you want to see him?’ Sophia shrugged and looked away.

Athos. Following the events under the cathedral she knew that they may never meet again, and she grieved for the loss of him. She saw herself, many years ago tearfully begging him to not pursue Lucien, but he had refused her. Treville died and Athos and Lucien fought each other.

Had he conspired with Treville to keep her baby from her? There were old ties between their families, pledges that had bound them as well. She had chafed at his protective nature. She had trusted Athos completely but could not and would not give up Lucien. The day would come when she would confront him and demand the truth. She looked away quickly. She did not want Constance to see the tears that threatened.

‘Did you say Raoul was in Porthos’ service?’ she asked brightly, ‘I saw Porthos recently.’ She proceeded to tell Constance the story of the harrowing trip through the subterranean passageways - being denied entrance into Paris through the gates, the dark and treacherous tunnels and Porthos pulling her to safety.

Constance listened with wide eyes. ‘Are you totally mad?’ Sophia snorted, ‘Porthos bellowed the same at me - as did Lucien!’ she laughed.

Constance leaned forward and took Sophia’s hand, ‘Lucien has been very good to me. And to Alexander. I do not know what would have become of us….’ Her voice failed her at the fear she had felt as the mob pounded on the gate and rocks rained down from over the walls as she held her baby in her arms.

‘He protected us – all of us,’ she meant the Musketeers and the cadets. They would surely have been overwhelmed by the angry crowd. ‘I….’ her voice broke as she recalled that terrible day.

‘Constance,’ Sophia covered her friend’s hand with her own, ‘you have been a good friend to him as well. I am grateful you were with him at the orphanages. I should not have agreed to let him do this search alone. It has been too hard, and your kind presence helped him.’

‘Well he didn’t ask the right questions!’ Constance exclaimed, ‘in fact he asked no questions at all!’ Constance shook her head at the witless man. ‘I had to do all the talking! I do not know how he would have learned anything without me,’ she declared.

Sophia smiled, ‘yes, he is lucky indeed that you knew how to talk to the women. I’m sure he was at quite a loss.’ It was more likely that he had preferred to listen to the answers given by those being peppered with her insistent questioning. Lucien at a loss with a woman – any woman, would have been enough to make the earth pause in its rotation she thought. But she knew he was pleased to be accompanied by Constance and readily acknowledged the beneficial effects of her wholesome nature.

‘He saved us,’ said Constance simply. ‘I will not forget what he has done.’

‘Let me tell you of his idea to keep you all safe,’ Sophia replied leaning forward eagerly. Quickly she outlined the plan. ‘We can do it together,’ Sophia said, ‘perhaps the cadets could help as well.’

‘We can get flour?’ asked Constance. It was impossible to find flour – at almost any price. ‘Yes, we will get flour,’ replied Sophia. She decided not to explain how that was possible. The less Constance knew of Lucien’s activities the better it would be for her. D’Artagnan would return eventually.

‘Shall we go look at the kitchens?’ The sound of baby’s cry turned both their heads toward the doorway to the nursery.  
‘Perfect timing,’ laughed Sophia. ‘I don’t have to pinch his toes! I cannot wait any longer to hold him.’

Together they went to the nursery and Constance watched while Sophia changed his nappie, tickling his round baby belly and talking in sweet tones. The baby watched her with big eyes and quick smiles, suddenly waving arms and legs in an energetic response.

‘Oh, you are the sweetest,’ declared Sophia lifting the baby to her shoulder, ‘Lucien said as much,’ and nuzzled the baby’s neck.

‘He is good with babies,’ acknowledged Constance, ‘Alexander is fascinated by him.’

‘You are in good company my love,’ Sophia cooed to the baby. ‘He is a marvel of a pirate, isn’t he?’ she laughed, and the baby laughed in return. Constance watched her hold Alexander and said, ’is there any news? Of your daughter?’

Sophia nodded, ‘yes, Lucien met with the Matron. A girl of the right age and fitting her general description was there but ran away. Flea is searching the Court again. Lucien and I are going to talk with her.'

Sophia tucked baby Alexander close to her, resting her check against the top of his head, ‘shall we go see the stoves?’

Standing in the garrison kitchens, Sophia looked anxiously for Constance’s reaction. She need not worry. Constance was moving around the kitchen as though seeing it for the first time, assessing and calculating how many hands needed for preparation, how many loaves could be baked in the ovens at one time, how many pots of soup would fit on the stoves. She had an intense look of one occupied with a purposeful endeavor. She would marshal the cadets into service to help the starving people of Paris. This was a job worthy of her.

‘We must speak to Lieutenant Cordey, it would be his decision,’ said Constance. ‘He will be in the yard.’

‘If he objects,’ said Sophia, ‘there is a woman with the Daughters of Charity, who could help us. I wonder if you know her – the Duchess of Aiguillon.’

Constance shook her head, ‘I do not know the lady,’ she said, ‘but when Rochefort was minister, there were many noble women at the court. He attracted that sort of attention you know – there is something frightening but irresistible about handsome powerful men.’ Sophia chuckled inwardly, thinking of the carriages of women arriving at the river front seeking an audience with Lucien.

‘She was a relation of Richelieu,’ explained Sophia. ‘Her family name is de Vignerot – Marie Madeleine de Vignerot. She married the marquis de Combalet but, was widowed early in the marriage. Do you know her by any of those names?’

Constance shrugged, ‘D’Artagnan may know her. I remember a young woman that was said to be a niece. She managed Richelieu’s household.’ She grinned mischievously, ‘surely you do not suggest some impropriety of the sainted cardinal?’

Sophia was rocking and humming a tune to baby Alexander, his eyes shining with pleasure at her attention. She widened her eyes at the baby, ‘well he may have been a saint, but he wasn’t a monk!’ The baby giggled and wriggled his body in delight. The two women laughed also.

‘You know a great deal about her,’ commented Constance standing close to her and making faces at her giggling boy.

‘She visited Lucien on behalf of Father de Paul. For a service he did,’ she answered vaguely but Constance knew what was meant. She had heard the singing in the street.

‘She sent a message asking me to call on her,’ continued Sophia. ‘I was curious about her.’ She turned around to Constance. ‘She may be able to help us.’ She was also interested in the Duchess’ ability to help Lucien, should that become necessary. Lucien providing the flour to the garrison to feed starving people would safeguard it against mob violence. That could help him – when the Queen accused him of treason.

‘Let us go see Lieutenant Cordey.’ She said to Constance and they left the kitchen for the yard.

But Lieutenant Cordey did not need persuading. He saw the value of it without the combined persuasive power of Father de Paul and two Duchesses. As soon as flour could be delivered, they would begin.

As Sophia took her leave, she embraced Constance for a long moment. ‘How angry will D’Artagnan be with you for doing this?’ She didn’t need to say that he would object to his wife having any association with Lucien Grimaud.

‘We shall focus on helping people eat and survive and keeping us all safe here,’ asserted Constance firmly. ‘Politics and the past must wait.’ Relieved, Sophia embraced her again. ‘I will let you know the delivery of the flour.’ She kissed baby Alexander and turned to mount her horse. She blew a kiss and she and her mercenary were out the gate, the Musketeer closing it firmly behind them.


	42. Among Friends

**Author: Mordaunt**

  _But I must at the very beginning lay down this principle—  
__Friendship can only exist between good men…_

_(Marcus Tullius Cicero, Laelius De Amicitia, 44 BC) (1)_

“Our Beloved Prime Minister is a shining example of diplomacy!” the King declares.

His apartments at Rouen are crowded and noisy, the chandeliers shining, musicians and singers entertaining the guests. The entire court is present alongside the Queen, Monsieur, and the Prime Minister, the hero of the day. There is much excitement among the courtiers: word is that the King is returning to Paris, a tentative but crucial truce having been achieved singlehandedly by the Prime Minister. The King is elated: “M. the Coadjutor should be honored to serve as a Secretary to such a great man as our Prime Minister!” he exclaims, and the entire court laughs at the royal joke against the most powerful leader of the Fronde. The Queen appears joyful, although a careful observer might notice coldness between her and the celebrated Prime Minister.

“I suppose this means you now return to Paris, and I leave for Flanders, M. de Rohan,” Raoul observes. They find themselves standing next to each other at the less crowded side of the room, somewhat removed from the courtiers flocking around the King and the royal family. M. Marchal and M. de Thierry are not among the men accompanying Captain d’ Artagnan this evening, since they are both part of the night shift at the guard. It is for the best, Raoul thinks. He has avoided M. de Thierry and most Musketeers since the night at the Lion d’ Argent. It was surprisingly easy: he now spends more time with His Majesty, rather than at the Garrison. He has no intention of taking up M. de Thierry’s challenge of course, and he has spoken to no one of it. He decided not to write to his mother about it either, for what could he possibly say? In fact, he decided not to write to his mother at all. She will be able to tell something is amiss from his most innocuous letter, and he would rather she knows nothing.

M. de Thierry’s words were harsh: “your father’s bastard.” How could this be? The father he knows is not a man to abandon his child, even one that was illegitimate. He thought of the young woman, Sylvie, and her infant daughter. His father loved and protected them. How could M. de Thierry be right? Raoul considered all sorts of explanations: perhaps M. de Thierry has made a mistake; perhaps his father does not know. It troubles Raoul greatly, to think of his father in this light, for he admires and loves him. How could this be?

The inevitable distance between him and Captain d’ Artagnan’s Musketeers, troubles him also, for he hoped to find friendship similar to the friendship his father shared with his three comrades. He blames himself for the unfortunate events of the night at the Lion d’ Argent.

“We may part our ways indeed, Vicomte, unless of course His Majesty decides you need to escort him to Orléans for his visit to his uncle,” M. de Rohan retorts avoiding Raoul’s gaze. “In that case, I fear you may have to endure our company for a while longer.”

Raoul fully comprehends M. de Rohan’s subtlety. “It is not true M. de Rohan,” he says quietly. “I enjoy your company and that of your comrades.”

A look of disbelief crosses, M. de Rohan’s clear blue eyes, “even M. de Thierry?”

“I blame myself for that,” Raoul says. He sounds contrite. “I should not have provoked him that night.”

“Speaking as his superior officer, I’d say you taught him a good lesson, Vicomte. Speaking as his friend, however…”

“My actions were unpardonable?” Raoul interjects.

“No…” M. de Rohan smiles. “But they were unnecessary. We all knew he was cheating. We all let him cheat. That is how it works. We all have our faults, Vicomte. M. de Thierry’s is his pride. We love our comrades as they are. One for all, all for one… remember?  

Raoul lowers his eyes. He knows now what he must say next.  If he is to seek a friendship he must be honest: “I admire you M. de Rohan. I thought I would not. In fact, I thought you would be…”

“Like my father?”

Raoul smiles. “No. I fear I know little about your father, Monsieur. I thought you would be a mindless brute as most soldiers tend to be. I thought you an adversary, you see…”

M. de Rohan is bemused, “I do not understand, Vicomte…”

“An adversary in the affections of a lady. Mademoiselle de la Valliere…” Raoul has not spoken her name for a long time. He has vowed not to speak it, as if to do so will break the spell of her memory.

M. de Rohan’s countenance betrays concern, and his tone is stern and solemn: “Mademoiselle de la Valliere is a lady of impeccable character, Vicomte. But she has a serious fault in the eyes of society: she is without fortune or a dowry, and her mother decided to marry a servant. That makes Mademoiselle de la Valliere fodder for gossip among bored people who want to pass the time. I care little about my reputation," M. de Rohan continues, “for I know what it is. I have only my actions to recommend me, and in my case, they will never be enough. Mademoiselle de la Valliere has done absolutely nothing to deserve such treatment… And she must not, under any circumstances, be tainted by my reputation.”

Are we adversaries? Raoul still wants to ask but he suddenly realizes the futility of the question. He met the lady once for a few precious moments. They barely spoke. He has seen her in his mind often as she was that day: on her black horse, her eyes the color of the sky, her golden curls cascading on her shoulders under her neat velvet hat. But there is little else besides that memory. Is this love, Raoul asks himself now, or just momentary infatuation? M.  de Rohan’s noble response provides the answer he seeks. M. de Rohan is in love with Mademoiselle de la Valliere but has no expectations either. They are, both of them, quite similar after all.

“I apologize, M. de Rohan, if I have in any way offended the lady, or you” Raoul replies. “Let us speak about this no more. The lady deserves her privacy for it seems to me, we both have her best interest in mind.”

M. de Rohan chuckles. “Speaking of diplomacy! You are a remarkable diplomat, Vicomte. De Thierry is right. Too smooth and too subtle to be among us, crude Musketeers.”

“But I would like that very much you see,” Raoul replies quietly. “To be among Musketeers…”

“Then you have much to learn, Vicomte…”

“Call me Raoul, M. de Rohan," he says.

“Call me Jean…” M. de Rohan replies with a smile. “We are distant cousins you know, through our fathers.”

“Yes, my mother warned me...” Raoul laughs. “I have been looking forward to this however, despite her warnings.”

“It is good to finally meet you, cousin,” M. de Rohan replies and they shake hands. “Let’s see if we can make a Musketeer out of you!”

 **** 

Across the room, Aramis takes his leave to retire for the evening. “Do not work too hard, Monseigneur,” the King says, “for we have great need of you now!”

“I am and always will be in the service of Your Majesty,” Aramis retorts, bowing deeply first to the King and then to the Queen. He avoids her gaze, and she feels it deeply but is determined not to let that alter her course of action.

Aramis walks past Captain d’ Artagnan on his way out of the royal apartments. He stops momentarily, as the Musketeer bows removing his hat. “Monseigneur,” d’ Artagnan says, “my congratulations. Your intervention has ensured His Majesty’s safe return to Paris.”

Aramis nods, an impish smile at the edge of his lips. He moves closer to d’ Artagnan, as if to shake his hand. “And you need to get back home. I hope Constance and Alexandre are safe,” he whispers. The exchange does not last more than a second. His tone changes immediately as he distances himself from d’ Artagnan. “Thank you, Captain,” he says louder, his tone dispassionate and aloof again.

D’ Artagnan stands completely bemused watching his old friend move away followed by his retinue of courtiers and officers. It is then that he feels something in the palm of his hand. It is a small note, in Aramis’ handwriting:

 

 

> _Catherine de Garouville and her son, the Comte de Renard are at court._
> 
> _Warn Athos immediately._
> 
> _One for all-All for one._
> 
>  
> 
>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Cicero and this particular treatise on friendship written in 44 BC was very popular among the 17th c. elites (especially young men) and very influential for 17th c. notions of friendship.  
> Original Text (complete quote):  
> Sed hoc primum sentio, nisi in bonis amicitiam esse non posse; neque id ad vivum reseco, ut illi, qui haec subtilius disserunt, fortasse vere, sed ad communem utilitatem parum; negant enim quemquam esse virum bonum nisi sapientem. (Laelius De Amicitia, by Cicero, 5:18, Published by Loeb Classical Library 1923).


	43. Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A plan is made to protect the garrison from the restless citizen mobs and help hungry people. A man makes a different plan to discredit an enemy and brings unanticipated repercussions.

Not far from the garrison a new barricade had been hastily erected at the street junction. As they approached it, she could see a citizen group on one side and guards and an officer on the other. Gunther was in front of her, slowing his horse watching the assembled combatants. His deep voice rumbled in irritation and he shook his head at the tense confrontation that was beginning to take an ugly turn. His orders were to keep her safe and avoid killing anyone – if possible. They came to a stop a short distance from the stand-off. To backtrack and find another route would take some time. If the citizen mob would let them through…she and Gunther exchanged glances and she was about to agree to turn back when a voice called out to her.

‘Madame,’ an officer was riding towards them. Gunther put himself between her and the approaching man, his hand on his sword. Sophia’s hand was on the musket holstered and fixed to her saddle.

‘Close enough,’ growled Gunther and the rider stopped. The officer held up his hands to show he had no weapons and gave a disarming smile. 

‘Madame, may I be of service,’ he spoke in a congenial tone, ‘I am Monsieur Comminges, that is, Lieutenant Comminges to these royal guards,’ he indicated the men behind him.

‘We do not need any service,’ the big mercenary replied for her and stared down at the royal officer, ‘just a way through the barricade.’

‘May I ask where you are going?’ inquired the lieutenant pleasantly, his lips curling in what he probably thought passed for a smile.

‘No,’ said Gunther bluntly, shifting his huge body in the saddle. He said no more, only continued his threatening stare at the man in front of him. The mercenary narrowed his eyes, the possibility of killing this man was getting more probable – and agreeable.

Sophia pulled her horse even with Gunther, ‘let’s try to get out of this without a fight,’ she said sternly. ‘He’s only asking us where we are going.’ The big soldier mumbled something about the lieutenant’s parentage and women being in charge of him, but let her move slightly ahead of him.

‘I am the Duchess de la Croix,’ she said amiably ‘we are on our way to les halles - to the markets.’ She did not explain why she was going to a market and not a servant. One lie at a time she decided.

The man sat up straighter, a sudden gleam in his reptilian eyes as he smiled at her. ‘Your Grace,’ he bowed from his saddle, ‘please forgive my unacceptable behavior. I did not recognize you.’

‘I do not believe we have met Lieutenant Comminges, so no apology is required, or need be accepted,’ she replied.

‘You are coming from the garrison Your Grace?’ he asked amiably. ‘I hope all is well there. The Captain left with the Queen. No doubt his men miss him,’ he leaned forward in the saddle, ‘and his boys,’ he added with an impish smile.

‘They know their duty sir,’ she replied coolly. How long would she need to keep this up she wondered. Behind her she could feel Gunther’s growing irritation. Soon he would insist she stay behind him and all pretense of civility would come to an end.

‘I would be grateful if you would ensure our safety through the barricade.’ Perhaps he was an officer in need of a mission, that is, aside from killing citizen rebels. She would give him one.

‘Of course, Your Grace, I am acquainted with your husband M Grimaud. He has done for the people what the Queen does not.’ Surprised at this open criticism of the Queen, Sophia looked quickly at the officer and frowned. Why would he speak this way to her?

‘I am happy to be of assistance to M Grimaud’s wife. Please Your Grace,’ he held out his hand in invitation for her to move ahead of him. He turned his horse to follow her.

‘Make way for the Duchess,’ he called out loudly. Both guards and rebels turned to look at the personage the Lieutenant was assisting through the barricade.

Gunther growled with anger, ‘keep your voice down sir,’ he demanded. She looked back at the mercenary uncertainly – why was he angry? But she moved her horse forward.

‘May I ask the purpose of your visit to the garrison? Do you know a Musketeer there?’ the lieutenant’s voice drifted up towards her. There was faint hint of implied impropriety in his question. What an odious man she thought.

‘I was visiting the Captain’s wife,’ she turned to answer him and saw him stiffen and then the cold curl of a smile on his cruel mouth. Suddenly, he was alert and with renewed interest.

‘Forgive me Your Grace,’ he said smoothly, ‘you are friends with Madame d’Artagnan? And the Captain?’ his voice was the right measure of politeness and disinterest. But she heard the sharp edge of his curiosity.

‘I went to visit Madame d’Artagnan to congratulate her on their child.’ That at least was not a lie.

‘No doubt,’ he said, ‘I am sure she is grateful for your husband’s safeguarding the garrison from the mob. He must be on very good terms with the Captain of the Musketeers. And solicitous of his wife.’ He smiled disarmingly.

Anger flashed at his insinuation, she was about to deliver a sharp rebuke when she suddenly felt her horse bunch under her, ears flattening, snorting and shifting sideways. She held the reins firmly and gripped the uneasy animal tightly with her legs looking around for what had spooked the horse. At the end of the street the citizen crowd was starting to push against the barricade banging their motley assortment of tools and pikes raucously against the tossed up assemblage of debris. Shouts could be heard from both sides and angry faces were turned in her direction. Suddenly, she understood Gunther’s furious cry and the danger she was in from being in the company of a royal officer. And – riding in front of him facing the mob.

She turned to tell Gunther to go back, they would find another way - when something struck her shoulder – hard. Her horse reared as rocks pelted his flanks and hit her legs and back. She threw her weight forward struggling to regain control and calm the frightened animal. She could hear shouts from the end of the street and Gunther roaring with fury. Then he was next to her grabbing her horse’s bridle when something struck her head, her vision blurred, and pain radiated across her head and down her neck. Automatically, she reached up her hand to touch it and drew back at the sticky feel, the sickening scent of iron and the taste in her mouth. She stared, uncomprehending at her hand. It was covered with blood. Something else struck her in the back and then the horse was rearing again under her. There was a pounding in her head, the officer was shouting, his men charging the barricade, guns firing and people screaming. She felt Gunther’s iron arm around her. She lifted her head to look at his fearsome face twisted in fury and whispered weakly, ‘don’t hurt them,’ but her vision was blurring and then it went dark.

>>

She was being carried. The pain in her head and neck was excruciating and throbbing with every step he took. Her chest was tight, and she could not draw a deep breath. She didn’t need to open her eyes to know who carried her. Relief flooded through her and she succumbed against the secure familiarity of his muscled arms and long stride. Her head fit perfectly in the space between chest and shoulder. She had been carried in these arms many times and her disoriented mind wandered to random memories – once across a stream as he chastised her for not wearing boots and another when he declared her drunk after too much dancing and wine at the wedding of a captain and he laughingly carried her off as she waved her hands and sang a wedding song, and then all the times when his desire left her breathless, her legs weak and he swept her up to take the stairs two at a time.

He was speaking to someone behind him, his muscles flexing as he looked over his shoulder and then he turned back to give orders to someone walking ahead. ‘Don’t hurt them,’ she tried to say, but her mouth was dry, and her tongue felt very thick. She could feel him look down at her.

‘Are you awake?’ she felt his deep voice reverberate against her cheek. She nodded once, not wanting to move her head at all. He lifted his head and spoke again to whomever was in front.

He lay her gently on the bed and unbuttoned the top buttons of her dress and removed her boots. Her maid set a basin on the table and handed Lucien a cloth. He dipped it in the warm water and started to clean away the blood on her face and head.

‘Can you tell me what happened?’ his voice was soft, and she wanted to curl her body into his arms and keep her eyes closed until she stopped shaking and the pain went away. She drew in her breath and collected her fractured mind, ‘I’m not sure, I think they were aiming for the officer. I was just in the way,’ please don’t hurt them, she tried to say, but couldn’t summon another sentence.

‘You were in front of him?’ he asked quietly, gently pressing the warm cloth to her head and face, rinsing it repeatedly.

‘Yes,’ she replied weakly. ‘He said he would get us through the barricades. Gunther did not like it.’ She didn’t want Lucien blaming Gunther.

There was a knock at the door and M Prujean stepped into the room. The physician walked around the bed and looked down at his patient, ‘good heavens Your Grace, do not tell me you are storming barricades!’ He tapped Lucien’s shoulder, ‘let me see the damage Lucien.’

Lucien stood and let the doctor take his place. There was another soft knock at the door. He walked to it. Paul was in the hallway, ‘we found him. What do you want us to do?’ He waited for instructions. There was no discussing this with Lucien – the best he could do was to go with him.

‘Watch him and wait for me,’ was Lucien’s quiet response. He stepped back into the room, closing the door.

Prujean was finishing his examination, ‘the cut on the scalp is deep but I can bandage it. The other wounds are painful but will not require stitches. She will be sore for a few days. She was struck more than once on the back,’ he stepped back drawing Lucien with him.

'She was very lucky Lucien. Another blow to the head might have been fatal.’ His voice was quiet. He did not want to alarm his patient. He studied Lucien’s stony face, ‘perhaps you should stay here,’ he advised, but he knew Lucien Grimaud and what would happen next.

Prujean patted Lucien’s shoulder, ‘Don’t worry, I will stay,’ said the physician. He went back to sit by the injured woman. She smiled weakly at him and lifted her hand to grasp his fingers. He squeezed it affectionately. ‘A little brandy and rest. We will wake you every hour or so,’ he said. Prujean had learned his craft on the battlefield and had observed many poorly understood dangers of head injuries.

Lucien sat next to her, ‘Denise will tend to you now. I will be back soon.’ He leaned forward and kissed her gently, his fingers tracing her cheek. She opened her eyes sleepily and nodded. She hadn’t heard what he said.

He walked from the room. Paul and Martin were waiting for him, Yusuf holding his cloak. He took it.

‘Let’s go,’ he said throwing his cloak around him as strode down the stairs.

>>>

Lieutenant Comminges was sitting at a table in the rear of the tavern spooning stew into his mouth. He drank deeply from his wine glass and tore a piece of bread from the loaf. His eyes roamed over the room, watching his men eat, drink and play cards. A few sported bruises from projectiles thrown or hurled with sling-shots by the rebels. He was thinking about the melee at the barricade. It was a stroke of genius for him to put her in front of him and let the ignorant rabble believe the Duchess de la Croix was with the Queen’s party. He was sure there would be reprisals from the newly crowned ‘king of Paris’ against the mob for their attack on his wife. That would certainly weaken Grimaud’s influence and control of the streets.

The Duchess’ visit to the garrison could not have come at a better time. He could use his exchange with her to cast doubt on the Musketeer captain. He pondered how best to deliver this information to his best advantage. Oh my Queen! he imagined himself kneeling and delivering the shocking news - D’Artagnan’s wife was receiving messages from Grimaud through his wife and passing them to the Musketeer captain. He would shake his head in indignation - they were clearly involved with Grimaud’s treasonous activities. It was obvious where the Captain’s sympathies lay – after all – his former compatriot, Athos was suspected of Beaufort’s escape - and all the while attending on the Queen and her court. He could see the Queen’s outrage at her Musketeer and smiled in sinister delight. D’Artagnan’s days as captain of the Musketeers would come to an end soon.

The door blew open banging against the wall. A blast of icy wind gusted into the room, swirling among the tables and blowing cards onto the floor. Comminges looked up irritably at the open door, the cold night beyond and started to order its closing, when a dark figure, black cloak billowing out behind him, filled the doorway. The room fell ominously silent as the cloaked man stamped heavily down the stairs, the cold wind flowing before him into the room.

Lucien Grimaud did not hesitate – he strode directly to where Comminges was sitting. The lieutenant sat back, one elbow bent over the back of his chair in a languid pose, a reptilian smile forming, his eyes narrowing with anticipation at the confrontation. The smile vanished as he saw the expression, or the lack of an expression on Lucien’s granite face. The lieutenant scrambled to his feet and reflexively stepped backward. He was too late.

In one movement, Lucien reached out and gripped the man’s tunic, lifted him from his feet and slammed his entire body against the wall behind him. He yanked the stunned man forward, turned him around, wrapped his arm around his neck and began to haul him toward the door. Comminges’ head was locked in place, he was choking, arms flailing as his heels scrabbled on the wooden floor in a futile attempt to gain his feet. His eyes caught the shocked and staring eyes of his men as he was dragged past them – like a diorama of soldiers standing in salute to their commanding officer as he was going to his doom, his head held in the vise like grip of Lucien Grimaud.

Laughter erupted as his feet bumped up the stairs. He rolled his eyes in the direction of the laughter. His gut heaved.

Standing among the tables, were the biggest fiercest looking fighting men he had ever glimpsed. Heavily armed, each rested a hand on a shoulder of one of his royal guard – casually – as though they were old friends and tapping a forefinger against their chest. They were laughing and pushing the guards forward, urging them to follow their ill-fated lieutenant.

Out in the street a crowd had assembled. Grimaud walked to the center of the muddy road and swung his arm in an arc tossing the man into the street as though he were of no more consequence than a rag doll. Comminges landed hard and rolled several times to end up on his face in the mix of mud, rotted food remains, animal and human offal that comprised the well trafficked and filthy streets of Paris.

‘Did you wish to speak to me?’ Grimaud’s voice was soft. Comminge groaned and coughed, spitting out dirt and blood. Shakily he got to his hands and knees and started to rise. Grimaud’s foot caught him in his stomach and flipped him to his back. He grunted in pain sucking in a shallow breath. As Grimaud advanced again Comminges held up his hands crying out, ‘stop!’

The crowd laughed, ‘I don’t think he wants to talk to you M Grimaud,’ one young man called out.

The mercenaries laughed loudest and clapped hard on the backs of the watching royal guards. Eyes rolling in their sockets, the royal guard laughed too.

Grimaud leaned over and gripped Comminges by his tunic and hauled him to his feet. The lieutenant swayed slightly, blood dripping down his cheek from a cut under his eye. His lip curled in anger.

‘How _dare_ you strike an officer of the Queen!’ he managed to cry out. Lucien’s open handed slap cracked against his face, snapping it back with the force of his weight. Comminges head jerked sideways, his body staggering after it. As Lucien stepped toward him, Comminges thrust up a hand to cover his face, a red welt forming, blood dribbling down his chin. ‘Sir! I protest!’

‘As do I sir,’ barked Grimaud as he swung his big arm, the flat of his hand connecting again with Comminges’ face with a loud clap. His head snapped back, ears ringing, pin pricks of light dancing in his vision, dimming at the edges. Abruptly he lost his balance and sat down, a look of total surprise on his face. The crowd erupted in laughter.

‘Oh Monsieur please!’ a young woman’s voice feigning to plead with Grimaud, ‘do not hurt my pretty face! My Queen will not kiss me now!’ The crowd laughed.

‘You have made an enemy today Grimaud!’ he gasped from his seated position. Lucien gaped in feigned surprise, ‘Monsieur! I didn’t know we were friends!’ The crowd laughed.

‘But,’ Grimaud wagged a finger in his face playfully, ‘the day is not yet over – who knows what miracles may occur.’ The crowd laughed again.

Gunther hunkered down in front of Comminges, his arms resting on his knees, his huge hands folded one over the other. He stared into the man’s face, ‘schwein,’ he said softly. He lifted one finger to Comminges’ chest and gave a gentle push. The man fell over onto his back and quickly Gunther straddled the man leaning his cruel bearded face into Comminges and holding his head between his two huge hands pressing hard, _‘schwein_!’ he roared into Comminges’ stunned face with all his might, his thundering voice echoing down the street, richocheting off walls and spilling into alleyways. In the shadows, feral cats, skinny dogs and furtive rats paused in their rummaging through garbage debris – ears pricked for other dangers. The crowd fell silent.

Comminges’ eyes bulged with fear and he knew he was going to die. He felt his bowels loosen and a fetid miasma of fear rose up around him. He rolled his eyes toward Grimaud who was standing a few feet away, hands on hips, watching him with a look of disgust on his dark face.

Grimaud hunkered down to Comminges, ‘sometimes Monsieur, we come across a man that we should never have aggravated,’ Grimaud spoke softly, tapping his finger against Comminge’s cheek, the terrified man squeezing his eyes together to shut out the man. ‘That man is me.’

‘You should have stayed in bed this morning Monsieur. You should not have gone out to get women hurt,’ he scolded, ‘or to annoy me’. Comminges clenched his teeth trying to prevent himself from crying. Gunther chuckled and squeezed his head harder. Comminges gasped and nodded quickly.

‘The only miracle you will ever know is the one I give to you – you will not die now,’ Grimaud’s deep voice was dangerously cold, ‘although you may wish it.’ He pulled a fearsome knife from his belt, its curved blade glinting dangerously in the moonlight.

‘Do you know what this is?’ he laid the blade against Comminges’ cheek, the point at the edge of his eye. ‘Arabs call it a jambiya. I took it off a man who tried to kill me with it.’ He turned the blade pressing the blade into the skin. A thin seam of blood appeared under the blade. Comminges eyes were flat with terror.

‘I killed that man. Before I killed him, I flayed him alive in the street with his own knife.’ Grimaud pressed the knife harder into the man’s face.

‘Should you ever speak or come near my wife, if you bring any harm to her, I will do the same to you and then I will let this man crush your skull like an egg.’ His voice was an icy whisper. Comminges stared into the dark eyes of Lucien Grimaud and knew, when he died – it would be the last face he would see.

Gunther released his grip on Comminges’ head. He leaned his weight back and with brisk hard movements, his big hands slapped the man’s bloody and battered face side to side. Blood spurted from his nose and mouth – Comminges moaned and coughed and choked on his own blood. The big mercenary stood and set his booted foot on Comminges' chest pressing down until he was gasping for breath, his hands pushing helplessly against the weight crushing his chest. The big man kicked him viciously in the side and walked away.

Comminges dropped his head back against the dirt sucking in air, tears funneling through the mud caked on his bruised and beaten face. He rolled to his side hugging himself and sobbing uncontrollably in fear and relief that he was alive.

It was quiet. He pushed himself to a seated position and looked around. The crowd had dispersed, his guards were gone. He sat alone in the middle of the deserted street. Several rats scuttled along the in the shadows of the buildings, pausing to investigate the garbage left in the street. One paused to sniff in his direction nose twitching, body poised and still. He stared vacantly at it. The rat turned and ran off.

>>

It was the deepest part of the night - glacial and crisp, the sky at its blackest and stars at their brightest. Lucien paused before opening the door to draw in a deep breath of the biting night air. The street was quiet, a few sounds from the tavern seeping around the gaps of the closed door. One of the guards stepped from the shadow of the building, the two mastiff dogs at his feet and raised his hand to his hat. Lucien nodded to him and went inside, passing through rooms and hallway.

Yusuf stood as Lucien approached. He had been sitting in a chair outside the bedchamber, wide awake. ‘All quiet sir. M Prujean left not long ago,’ he said. ‘The water is hot. Do you require food?’ He took Lucien’s cloak and waited. Lucien shook his head and Yusuf moved soundlessly away.

He entered the bedchamber quietly. The maid was dozing in a chair next to the bed. He laid a hand lightly on her shoulder. She jumped at his touch and looked up at him and then quickly toward her sleeping mistress.

‘I’m sorry sir,’ she whispered apologetic at him finding her sleeping. ‘the doctor said….’

It’s alright,’ he said quietly. ‘Go to bed now.’

He leaned over her, bracing one hand against the headboard and placed his palm to her forehead. She was cool to his touch and did not stir. He watched her for a few moments stroking back a stray strand of her dark hair, letting his hand rest gently against her cheek.

He walked to the small chamber where Yusuf was pouring hot water into a tub, pulled off his boots and shed his clothes like an unwanted skin. He stepped into the steaming water. Yusuf gathered up the clothing and disappeared silently.

Lucien slid down into the hot water, resting his head against the back of the tub. The fire was banked, still warming the room with what remained. He closed his eyes and sipped the brandy Yusuf had left for him.

His thoughts drifted to another night he had soaked in another tub – an immense footed stone tub encased in an elaborate decorative lattice of copper and bronze. Yusuf and Sophia had found it in a stone mason’s shop in Marseille.

Arrangements were made to bring the massive tub from the shop and up their hill. It was a remarkable feat of engineering and stubborn determination – requiring donkeys, pulleys, ropes and a contingent of very large men - but eventually the tub was successful deposited at the rear of the garden.

‘It won’t fit through the door,’ he remarked standing to the side as they examined their treasure. He was leaving on a trip. He was often away in those days. He had much to do to rebuild his business and the trust of his men. He left them there to figure out how to get it into the house.

They couldn't move it. They couldn't get it into the house. So, Sophia and Yusuf decided to build a bathhouse around it.

It was Yusuf who had first found the hot spring in the low hill behind the house. With the tub in their possession and without revealing their plans to him, they found the skilled workmen needed to design the system of drains and pipes for the flow of heated water into stone cooling ponds and the tub. They searched for a tile maker to lay the floor with tiles the blue color of the ocean he sailed. A small house was built around it. When the bathhouse and tub were unveiled to him, he had laughed in surprise and delight, swinging her around and kissing her soundly. Yusuf offered a small discreet smile.

As they prepared to leave Marseille for Royamount, there was a great deal of discussion about how to transport the tub to its new home. Computations of weight, the size of the wagon and reinforcement needed to accommodate its size and weight, how to lift it into the wagon bed. how many horses to pull it, how often to change horses, would mules be better? maybe oxen? how long the trip – the problems seemed insurmountable.

He was leaning against the wall watching Yusuf and Sophia scratching computations on paper, workmen chatting softly and standing to the side awaiting orders. They seemed defeated by the scope of the problem.

Suddenly Sophia looked up at Yusuf, ‘I’ve got it!’ she exclaimed excitedly. ‘We just need an elephant!’

Silence fell. The men exchanged surprised looks and Yusuf stared in bewilderment into Sophia’s brilliant blue eyes, so confident she had found the answer to their problem. An elephant and a mahout to move the tub from Marseille to Royamount. Yusuf smiled and chuckled softly. Sophia smiled back and then suddenly they were both laughing – belly rolls of laughter, holding their sides, tears coursing down their cheeks, laughter filling the room. The workmen were laughing and he was laughing too – at the elephant and the mahout walking the country roads towing a tub and at something he had never seen before – Yusuf laughing. He listened to the sound of her sweet laughter drift to the far corners of the room as an airy confection, irresistible in its joyful effect. His heart swelled with emotion – every dream he ever had led to her.

He had not lost her to distance and time, he had not lost her in the storm of violence he had caused, or to illness or during childbirth. But he had almost lost her today – when a few random rocks found their mark. Thrown by those who would never have harmed her had they known better of her.

He dried himself and walked into the bedchamber. He slipped into the bed to lay behind her sliding his arm under her neck to pillow her head. He softly kissed the bruises, his fingers gently tracing the graceful symbols of the tattoo that ran from her shoulder down her back. In her sleep she reached for his hand and drew his arm over her. She was soft and warm under the covers and he wrapped his strength around her, breathing her into him, feeling the steady beat of her heart under his hand. He lay for a moment listening to the familiar night sounds of the building and the street. He closed his eyes and slept.


	44. Small, Wild Creatures in the Dark

**Author: Mordaunt**

_"Retirez-vous, démons, qui volez dans la nuit…"_

_(J. Racine, 1639-1699, A Laudes)_

 

De Thierry does not mind the night shift at the guard. He knows after a few years of volunteering, that his comrades think him odd, but welcome his willingness to take on the shift most of them abhor. He likes the night shift. The darker the night, the better.

   

> _There is no moon tonight…_

 

“Darkness is your friend once your eyes get used to it,” Rato had whispered. That was not his real name, but it suited him. He was small with short sturdy legs, his hair black and frizzy. He could climb like a squirrel. When they first talked to each other he was missing his two front teeth. “They grow back!” he gloated and flashed a toothless smile. They really did grow back, almost overnight. Meanwhile he lisped most of his consonants making his broken French sound more like bad Galician, and his Galician unintelligible. He could not remember how he found himself at Bicêtre. He was just there, he shrugged.  It made sense that someone like Rato just grew out of the earth one night, like the small yellow dandelions, which kept growing between the stones of the church floor, no matter how many times the Sisters cleared them. They were all like that, the children of Bicêtre: unwanted weeds growing overnight, scrawny, with falling baby teeth, cold, and always hungry.

She did not remember either, how she found herself at this place. She had a vague memory of being lifted from someone’s arms in the darkness. It felt as if she had been half asleep when it happened. She blamed herself for that. Had she been more alert, maybe things would have turned out differently. She promised herself never to be careless again, or trusting. It was most likely of course, that she had imagined this story. It was most likely that, like Rato, she too had just appeared at Bicêtre. But then…she must have belonged to someone once… Rato would declare proudly that he was Galician. That is where he belonged. “What are you?” he had asked and she had shrugged: “A heathen.” She was not sure what that meant. But that is what the Mother Superior called her. She had decided it was because of her black hair and her strange name, which remained unspoken.

 She had no doubt also that the Mother Superior knew about the soft silk scarf she kept under her mattress, embroidered with a lady holding a hawk and a warrior on a horse, and framed with peculiar winding shapes in gold thread. It was an odd, frail little thing. The lady was not dressed like any lady she had ever seen: a gold and red headscarf, and what looked like blue, loose long pantaloons under a purple robe. The warrior carried a sword in the shape of the half moon.  She had no idea how she came to own such a fragile colorful thing at a place as harsh and colorless as Bicêtre. It was the only thing that belonged to her and she belonged to it: that is what it means to be a heathen, she told herself, and made up all sorts of stories about the colorful scarf, none of which were true.

They were not supposed to meet or talk, the boys and the girls, except during church on Sundays, and even then, they were forced to look only at the altar or at the floor but never at each other. They were made to sit on either side of the nave, boys on the right, girls on the left, divided by a line of Sisters in the middle, who had to stand during the entire mass. “It makes sense that most Sisters hate us,” Rato had explained. He was older and knew more about the world. “Imagine having to stand all these hours just to keep us from looking at each other…”

It must have been early spring. It was a frigid morning but there was a taste of sweetness in the air. They were all seated on the creaking pews waiting for mass to begin. The Mother Superior invited Cecille, her favorite, to sing a hymn. “She has the voice of the angels,” the Mother Superior declared. Cecille had large round eyes, pale blue, and plump rosy cheeks. Tucked neatly underneath her white cap her hair was soft like golden silk.

“Observe,” the Mother Superior had announced earlier that morning. She gently urged Cecille to step forward. The girls were standing in a line before their cots, dressed in their plain gray tunics, their heads uncovered, waiting to have their hair and hands inspected before mass. “Observe how neat, and beautiful, our beloved Cecille is. God always shows us His love through beauty and simplicity.” 

She moved slowly along the lined silent girls as if looking for someone, her demeanor having changed completely. “And now this one!” Her pale creased countenance was animated with indignation. “The mongrel with the unspeakable heathen name. Look at her hair, black, the devil’s mark. Untidy and unkempt. An insult to God’s Grace. Show me your hands, girl!” 

The child steadied her trembling hands extending them with desperate resolve. She had tried to braid her hair with the two hairpins she was allowed, but it was too thick and unruly to stay in place. She had scrubbed her hands and nails too with a tough brush in the freezing water until they had bled.

“Disgusting!” the Mother Superior declared inspecting her meticulously, her hair, her neck behind the ears for lice, her hands and nails. She raised her stick and landed it on the palms of the girl’s hands marking them with deep bleeding scars. “I will draw the devil out of you!” she continued. “Through your flesh if necessary. God always prevails in the end!” The child kept her head lowered, her lips pursed. Tears she refused to shed gathered in her eyes. “What do you say child?” the Mother Superior demanded.

“Bless you Reverend Mother for your kindness,” the child whispered.

“Louder!” she insisted. “The Lord must hear your penitence!”

The child tried a second time, but in the eyes of the Matron, it was still not loud enough for the Lord’s forgiveness. “Obstinate, heathen creature!” she exclaimed with exasperation landing the back of her hand across the face of the child, who collapsed on the stone floor. “Stand up!” she ordered. “You will confess your sins after mass.”

The child trudged to church following the long line of silent girls. She made fists with her hands for it kept them from bleeding all over her dress, and helped with the throbbing pain. She kept licking her bleeding lip. The Reverend Mother preferred to hit with her right hand where she wore her wedding band. At least this time she was not whipped, she thought. She had to sit for hours of mass, her scarred back bleeding into her rough tunic, many times in the past.

She breathed in the fragrant air instead: the incense and something else fresh, wild, and free, a hint of spring invading the enclosed, secluded space of the church. She kept her eyes on the ancient stone floor. And then she heard it, frail and playful, almost entirely masked by the chanting: the chirping of a bird. She had heard the Sisters whisper to each other about the birds that nest among the roofbeams and fly inside the church at dawn. How strange they must seem to these small winged trespassers, she thought, the columns, the wooden statues, and the monstrous gargoyles instead of trees. Would they know the difference? She wondered if some of them perched on the cross above the altar or roosted in the open palms of the crucified Lord. Why would they want to be trapped in here, she asked herself, and not fly free in the world where the air already tasted of spring? The world beyond the walls of Bicêtre?

Cecille with the voice of the angels finished her hymn, and the chanting continued but all she could hear was the faint quivering trill, defiant and seditious, high above the somber congregation. She raised her eyes carefully hoping to get a glimpse of the intruder. He was there, on the highest beam, vivacious, and luminous, hopping around joyfully, and ruffling his black and golden feathers.

 

> A goldfinch.

A hand shoved her head down. One of the Sisters. The Mother Superior was informed. It was ten whippings this time in front of the entire orphanage. Then she was forced to stand on a bench in the middle of the refectory while the rest devoured their meager breakfast. It would be like this, with no food for her for the entire day and night. Just water and prayer. She was to stand there during both meals and then, after attending evening mass, she was to return to her bench and stand there all night.

She forced herself to stand as upright as she could. Her lip throbbed worse than her scarred palms or her bleeding back. But if she focused she could ignore it all: the pain, the bleeding, the eyes looking askance, the mocking giggles, the whispers. If she focused even harder she could make herself hear nothing but the goldfinch’s song. 

Night frightened her most of all. More than the pain, the contempt, and the sneering eyes. Only one thing terrified her: being alone in that dark room. All those creatures lurking in the corners, that the girls and the Sisters whispered about: spirits of nuns, and faceless ghosts of dead children… Should she pray? She decided to be defiant. “Show yourselves,” she called out in her mind to the dark creatures closing in around her.

She was aware of the smallest sound: a creak here, a shuffling there, and suddenly, something warm that touched the back of her hand. She did not scream, for the wild beating of her heart muffled any sound she could make. She turned blindly, “who is there?” Her voice trembled.

A giggle. Something moving. Behind her? To the left? To the right? “Who is there?” Something touched her foot, and she bent to reach it: it was solid. A piece of hard bread. “Who is there?”

“Thhhhhh!” It was a soft whistling sound from somewhere close. Like air blowing between teeth. “Thome bread…” the voice lisped. A boy’s voice.

“Are you a ghost?” she ventured, holding her breath. 

“Don’t be ridiculouth,” he giggled, coming closer. She could see his shadow now, short and sturdy, his curly hair outlined in the darkness.

She exhaled relieved: “Thank you for the bread.”

“Naah! Nothing!” There was creaking at the side of the bench where she stood. She felt his weight as he sat at her feet. “Why are you thtanding?”

“It’s the punishment,” she said quietly.

“Pfff!” he scoffed. “And who will know if you don’t thtand?”

“God,” she was about to say but it suddenly occurred to her that God was nowhere in this room. Just darkness and strange living things with wild frizzy hair and gaps between their teeth. She sat beside him. Her legs trembled. She had not felt this tired in her entire life. “What’s your name?” she asked gnawing at the hard bread.  

“They call me Rato,” he replied. “You?”

She shrugged: “The Reverend Mother calls me ‘girl’.”

“I will call you Pinchar” he lisped, “like that finch today at mass. It’s Galician,” he added proudly.

  

 

> _There is no moon tonight and de Thierry feels at home …_

 

Rato was right.  Once your eyes get used to darkness it is the safest place to be. It protects like a warm cloak. Darkness invades everything, absorbing it into a shapeless emptiness. Anything is possible in the darkness. An entire life thrives in its embrace: small wild creatures crouching in corners, waiting, growing. What happens in darkness dissolves by the light of morning like mist, as if it never existed. Looking back as far as memory allows, it was in darkness that his life started; it was in darkness that he made his first true friend.  

Years after the night at Bicêtre, when he first met Rato, it would be in darkness again that another life would become possible.  And when the light of day came, steel blue and frigid, like every other morning of that early life, there would be nothing left behind of the girl he used to be.

 


	45. The Armory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Where can I go then from your Spirit?  
> where can I flee from your presence?  
> If I climb up to heaven, you are there;  
> if I make the grave my bed, you are there also" (Psalm 139)

‘Robbing an armory is easy,’ declared Lucien, ‘we just wave our guns at them and the guards surrender!’ He grinned at Martin’s disgruntled face. The huge mercenary bared his teeth at the two cringing guards who immediately thrust their hands forward to be bound. ‘What are you so cross about?’

‘Why not just leave the key in the lock?’ grumbled Martin as he tightened the ropes around the un-resisting guards. He shoved gags in their mouths and slapped them both hard. ‘No funny business,’ he warned. The guards gaped at the huge mercenary and shook their heads vigorously making unintelligible but obliging noises behind their gags  
.  
Lucien, his crew chiefs and the German mercenaries strolled through the armory rooms admiring the stacks of long guns along entire walls and tables filled with every variety of hand gun. They stopped and examined the pistols, muskets and workmanship of the swords. Boxes of shot were stacked along walls along with small barrels of gunpowder. There were crates of unloaded guns. Armor, mail and shields were piled high in one room, pikes leaning up against an entire wall.

The mercenaries crowded around a table loaded with muskets examining them carefully, comparing the features of individual weapons and arguing over the merits of Ottoman versus European gun powder and firing mechanisms.

‘This is the true flintlock,’ said Gunther holding up a musket, ‘de Bourgeoys is a genius,’ he paid grudging admiration to the French gunmaker.

In each room they paused to confer as to what to take and what to leave. Everyone had a favorite weapon – so the discussions were as vigorous and lively as if they were debating the charms of a woman or the qualities of horses. Lucien thought it was no different than shopping on market day in the company of his daughters as they argued and compared the merits of ribbons or cloth – shade of color, quality of fabric, patterned or plain – and just as exhausting.

‘Ahhh,’ moaned Gunther as though he were in the arms of a lover. Lucien turned around and chuckled at the sight before him. The giant mercenary was draped over a cannon barrel, lovingly rubbing its metal surface.

‘She’s your type,’ observed Lucien admiring the man’s choice. He gave the cannon a wistful look. ‘Pity we cannot put that on our roof,’ he said to Martin. The big mercenary snorted and nodded with regret.

‘I’m not sure we can get your big girl out of here,’ he said to Gunther, frowning at the problems presented in moving cannon. The three men stood around the huge gun admiring its fearsome beauty. They could see the difficulties, but the value of the big gun was tempting.

‘We can move the entire wall of long guns more easily,’ Lucien argued. ‘Do we need this?’ he kicked at the wheel of the big gun carriage. ‘We will want the other cart to move it and to get a horse team in here.’ He looked at the big mercenaries. ‘Or perhaps you can hitch yourself to it,’ he suggested. The men were walking around the cannon talking to each other in low tones.

‘I leave you to sort it out gentlemen,’ said Lucien continuing his walk through the armory. ‘If you can move it, you can keep it.’ The two brothers exchanged glances. This was a worthy challenge. He left to find Joseph. He would send a message to du Sable to bring the small barge. Just in case the German mercenaries figured out how to get the cannon out of the building.

Now he stood at the front of the barge staring intently down the dark canal. He listened carefully to the sounds of the night and watched the windows of the houses for signs of any interest in the silent barge moving down the canal. He didn’t expect any resistance, but old habits die hard and should vigilance ever be relaxed, the short life of a pirate can become even shorter. Soon they would be on the river. From there it was a short trip to the docks he planned to use to move their cargo.

He chuckled as he imagined the faces of the military officers at the sight of the looted armory. They had ransacked the rooms and had a vast store of weapons. He had left orders for the wagons to drop a few crates of pistols and long guns along their route. It might help equalize the fight between royal guards and citizens. And – citizens unexpectedly in possession of guns would confuse and divert the investigation away from him.

Yusuf appeared silently beside him, handing him a glass of ale and a steaming bowl of stew. Lucien sat on a crate and took the food, hungrily forking it into his mouth. He glanced at Yusuf, ‘are they ready?’ Yusuf nodded ‘all is prepared.’

>>

The night sky was changing from black to deep blue as Lucien watched the last barge move away from the hidden dock and begin its final return journey. He waited in the high grasses listening to the sounds of night turn to day – the chittering sounds of insects fading, and morning bird calls breaking with the dawn. He was alone with the sounds of the morning and the timeless sound of a flowing river.

It was peaceful, and he lay back to watch the sky begin its daily transformation from night’s dark beauty to the majesty of a dawning day. Clouds in drifts or scalloped edged banks once dark gray against the night sky were now illuminated from behind, glowing and pulsing with purples, berry and warm pinks. Patches of blue sky peeked from between their rosy colors at random intervals – bright pure light streaming through the artist’s pallet. He remembered another dawn, one he and Sophia watched together – at the small cottage overlooking the sea. He had awakened to find her gone – and rose from the bed, throwing the blanket around his shoulders to look for her. She was standing in the open doorway, her shawl around her shoulders. He had walked up behind her and drew the blanket around her and she lay her cheek against his chest. ‘It’s so beautiful,’ she whispered. He smiled, ‘you are beautiful,’ he murmured, kissing her silky hair. ‘This,’ he raised his eyes to sky approvingly, ‘is very nice.’ She laughed and gave his chest a playful hit with her fist admonishing him for his impropriety toward the Creator’s art work.

He felt a deep pang of longing for the absent pieces of his life – the proof that he could be a better man and where the demand was for his steady shielding presence and not his violence. It had been too long since he had ridden through the countryside with his son, visited the village and their neighbors, listen to his daughters play the harpsichord and review their studies. His eldest daughter included small drawings with her letters, but he missed sharing his study with her - looking up from his desk to watch her draw, her profile of studied concentration so like her mother. He wanted to stride into the dining room to the chatter of his children at breakfast, kiss Sophia and exchange a loving smile of the night before. Someday, he thought, all this madness would be over, and they would know the truth of their missing child or they would never know the truth. He would take her to the cottage to watch sunsets and sunrises wrapped together in a blanket, his cheek resting against her silky hair.

He rose from the tall grasses and strode to his horse. He mounted and surveyed the area again. There was no sign of a dock or a warehouse or a road. He watched the windmills turning in the steady breeze on the opposite shore – silent witness to what had occurred here. He turned his horse and rode back to the city.

>>>

Quill scratching on paper was the only sound in the room. The priest raised his hand, dipping the nib into ink and continued to write. After a few moments, he paused to re-read what he had written. He sat back and turned his attention to the man at the other end of the room.

‘I understand you have met the Duchess Aiguillon,’ he remarked. The man was standing by the bookshelves, a foot set upon a low stool and reading a book balanced on his upraised leg. He looked up absently.

‘Yes, she came to the dock,’ he said. ‘I was surprised a woman of her status would travel to that part of the city.’ He smiled at the memory of her visit – she had been enthusiastic about the nature of the industry and the people who worked at it. He had found her interest sincere, her admiration for those who labored there, honest. He had liked her. She was a stranger to him – but he liked her.

‘Do you consider she can help you?’ the priest looked up from his desk. ‘When the Queen returns, she and her ministers may not appreciate your…work.’ He smiled. ‘As we do that is…’ and smiled again.

‘I would not ask her,’ replied Lucien firmly. ‘I understand amnesty to be promised.’ He laughed ruefully, ‘but we all know something of royal promises, do we not?’ The priest raised his brow in silent agreement.

The priest pushed back his chair, stood and moved to the fireplace. He sat by the fire holding out his hands to warm them. He motioned for Lucien to sit opposite him.

‘How was your talk with the Matron?’ he asked. He did not miss the tightening of Lucien’s mouth and jaw. ‘She was helpful,’ Lucien said carefully. ‘She remembered a girl of the right age and from the general area. She also had the same name.’

‘That’s good,’ said de Paul. ‘Is she still there?’ Lucien shook his head, ‘no, she ran away and has not been seen since. We are searching again the Court of Miracles.’ He was not finished with the Matron, but this was not the time to discuss the nun with the priest.

‘Your wife,’ asked de Paul, ‘how is she faring? She is now here with you.’ Lucien smiled, ‘she refuses to go back to Royamount. She insists she will be here until we learn our daughter’s fate – wherever that may lead.’

‘A strong lady,’ remarked the priest, ‘and, dare I suggest a little stubborn?’ Lucien raised his brows and smiled. He did not tell the priest that his wife refused to leave because of what she had sensed in him. The night he had returned from his first visit with the priest, the night of his confession and when he had learned about Treville’s intents, he had felt a long buried but familiar heat course through him. She had seen it too and confronted him, laying bare his sins and pulling him into her fearless love. She would not step back from his darkness, she would not let him lose himself.

‘There is nothing little about her stubborn nature,’ he said with a look of forbearance. Both men smiled.

He glanced at the priest across from him and wondered what drew him to these meetings. Did he think the good Father could, by force of his own beliefs, challenge the demon that smoldered inside him?

‘She is well?’ asked de Paul, studying Lucien’s face, ‘I heard of an incident in the street…’

‘She is fine,’ Lucien interrupted and said nothing more, the expression on his face closing off any further questions. He did not care to discuss Comminges with anyone, much less the priest. Once again, he thought he should have killed Comminges outright. But Paul had warned otherwise, fearing the death of a royal officer would bring severe judgement. But he knew a day of reckoning would come with Comminges. He wondered if the man had the courage to face him or, like the coward he was, would strike through others and from the shadows.

The priest studied the man across from him and sighed heavily, folding and re-folding his hands across his chest. He had met many men with strong arms and a darkness in them. Men who carried their sins with angry restless guilt – resentful of the laws of man and God that condemned their actions and their souls. Confession, he bored into their sinful eyes, confession can reclaim your soul.

But this man’s power was more than his considerable breath of chest and combined strength of muscle and sinew. Resolve flowed from the clarity of his purpose, his nature entirely lacking in obsequious stealth. He believed in his own truth and carried his authority with easy grace and self-deprecating humor. Like a sleek gorgeous wild and powerful animal, he could purr with domestic tranquility, but if provoked, would twist to snarl and snap with ferocious intent. Those who underestimated him, did so at their own peril. This man was not easily persuaded that confession led to redemption. To him, the devil had made a personal appearance.

He knew the justice that Lucien had dispensed to the man who was responsible for his wife’s injuries. He needed – they all needed – a man willing to use his strength in the service of those who had none of their own. Others would say to him that as a priest, he had made a bargain with the devil. Father de Paul knew in his heart that Lucien Grimaud wrestled hard with his own demons – but the man was no devil. He was only guilty of a discriminating nature when it came to his forgiveness.

‘You have been busy,’ commented the priest. ‘Is there any time for my readings?’

‘You have set me on a path Father,’ Lucien grinned,  
... “In all things I have shown you that by working hard in this way we must help the weak…” he quoted.

‘Good heavens’! Father de Paul was startled and amused. ‘Are you actually reciting scripture to me?’

There was a mischievous golden glint in the dark eyes of Lucien Grimaud. ‘Is it a surprise? I take your instruction to heart Father.’

‘A surprise?’ mused the good Father, ‘it’s more like a miracle!’ The priest smiled and sat back in his chair. He folded his hands across his abdomen and studied the man before him.

‘I am pleased, but surely you do not mean to impress me?’ admonished de Paul. The dark man shrugged, and the priest smiled kindly. He liked this man and was fascinated by his contradictions. But he would be remiss in his duty to not teach the lessons as they were taught to him.

‘Remember Lucien,’ he said with a faint smile, ‘  
"… he said to them, “You are those who justify yourselves before men, but God knows your hearts.’

>>>

He was hidden behind shrubbery of a park located across the wide boulevard from the grand home belonging to the Duchess of Aiguillon. A carriage was pulling into the circular drive drawing to a stop in front of the wide stairs. A woman stepped from the carriage. She was of medium height and wore a long blue cloak. She didn’t turn around, but he knew the iridescent lights that gleamed in her remarkable blue eyes.

She turned slightly, and he drew back into the shadows, peering out carefully. He could not afford for the Duchess de la Croix to see him or even a glimpse of him. She could not suspect that he was following her. It would be his death warrant. He trusted no one with this duty. Surreptitiously, he followed her, and plotted his revenge on the man who had terrorized and humiliated him – her husband, Lucien Grimaud.

Behind him, a discreet cough. He turned his head slightly but did not take his eyes from the woman. ‘What is it?’ he snapped. ‘Sir, something has happened at the armory,’ said the officer.

He watched the two women greet each other and enter the large elegant home. He drew his cloak around him and settled his hat on his head. He turned to the office and nodded. ‘Let’s go.’

>>

Lieutenant Comminges stood before the armory guards, an angry curl to his cruel mouth, smacking his riding crop against his thigh. His fingers itched to lash out and smash the crop into the faces of the guilty looking guards, their eyes shifting towards each other, side to side but never at him.

‘What happened here,’ he barked at them. They shrugged helplessly. They had fought valiantly to defend the royal armory against the assault from huge armed men who stormed the armory and took them by force and despite their heroic efforts….

Comminges held up his hand in disgust, ‘stop! I will deal with you later,’ he said angrily. The guards exchanged small smiles but nodded at him and bowed. Once again, he was tempted to smash them with his whip. He knew the men winked and chuckled at him behind his back. Ever since that night in the street – he curled his lip and gripped his whip tighter to control the sudden lurch in his gut. Patience he told himself – patience.

He walked through the armory, making note of the arms that had been stolen. It might have been easier to make a list of what was not stolen. The guards told him of the empty crates found in the streets, but he didn’t believe the ignorant mob could have devised a plan to loot an entire armory. He surveyed the room angrily – there was only one man who could have stolen these weapons.

He walked back through the armory, striding through the near empty rooms shouting orders to his men to record the looted weapons, take the statements of the guards, interview the local residents…when he came to a sudden stop. He stood for a moment, motionless and then turned around slowly and looked down the length of the room he had just walked through. In the middle of the room was a long row of cannon. Carefully selected by the King’s generals for advanced technologies of maneuverability, power and precision, the cannon was the pride of the military’s armament. Mounted on two wheeled carts and weighing well over a ton – the most feared weapon on the battlefield.  
Two were missing


	46. A Night at the Marais

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes follow at the end of the chapter

**Author: Mordaunt**

 

 _Une si rigoureuse refforme.  
__Met tout le monde en desarroy.  
__Il suffit qu'un chacun se forme.  
__A la volonte de son Roy. (1)_  

 _(Legend under the engraved image of Philandre (Filandre), by artist Daret.  
_ _Image dated erroneously to 1634; correct date 1647)_  

She lowers her eyes and brings her pale hand to her chest as if to suppress the beating of her heart. 

> _“Oh Scevole! Big heart, where virtue rules  
>  _ _If by my coldness, thy love I have refused,  
>  _ _If ever love carried by a soul so beautiful,  
>  _ _Still kept words of passion in my lips unmovable,  
>  _ _Let me ease your pain, so deep  
>  _ _It is for you and Rome I weep…” (2)_

Her voice falters, as if she is overcome with feeling.

“Perfection!” The man who expresses such enthusiasm is, in one word, majestic. He is dressed in the most opulent doublet cut in the latest fashion, made of plum-colored brocade embroidered with large gold flowers, and accented with the finest lace. He is in his early thirties. His face, which maintains the fullness of early youth, is animated by a pair of expressive deep blue eyes. He keeps his beautifully manicured hands raised as he speaks to drain them of blood, and make a show of the delicate veins under his pale skin. From his clothes, to his perfectly arranged black locks, to his immaculately trimmed beard, it is clear that this is someone for whom appearance matters greatly. He speaks in a sonorous voice, pausing in between his sentences, as if to allow his interlocutors time to digest the deeper meaning in his words. The man is M. Jehan Mathée, although everyone calls him Filandre. (3)

“How can your pious Junie, not be immediately adored by the audience, when she is portrayed by Cecille, our precious jewel, dear M. du Ryer?” he exclaims, addressing another man seated at a makeshift desk close by. His attire, albeit colorful is much less flamboyant.  He flips through loose pages laid out before him, looking for a specific passage. This is none other than M. Pierre du Ryer, the famous dramatist (4). Having found the passage he was looking for, he begins to write down notes in the margins. Behind him, two young stage-hands are unraveling a magnificent life-size painting that depicts an ancient Roman temple. Another group of stage-hands are using large hooks and thick ropes to hang paintings of clouds: there will be a real sky with moving clouds, and a shining sun above, once everything is hoisted in the air. After some difficult years that included a fire and the sudden departure of its director, M. de Soûlas, whom everyone calls Floridor, the Marais (5) became fashionable again, once they furnished their stage with three magnificent machines. They allow spectators to see, rather than imagine, the most fantastic scenes. The Marais still lags behind their competitor, the troupe known as the Comediéns de Roi at the Hôtel Bourgogne, in terms of size and talent, as well as in royal patronage. But this is perhaps about to change.

“Indeed, my dear Filandre,” M. du Ryer observes raising his eyes from the text. “Looking back, I believe that it was Mademoiselle du Pouget (6) I must have been thinking while writing Junie.” He smiles towards the young woman as he speaks, and she lowers her gaze, blushing. “I have always wanted you to be in my Scevole, Mademoiselle,” he continues. “We did not have this opportunity the first time, for you were too young, but now, finally, we can perform it again, and at the request of His Majesty!”

“Such a unique opportunity for us,” Filandre interjects. “To have been chosen for a royal performance over those at the Rue Mauconseuil. Notice, my dear M. du Ryer, that I avoid calling them by their name!” he remarks with pride.  “It was a wise decision not to stage any of M. Scarron’s satires against the Prime Minister, the way they did. Now they are forced to close down and go for a tour in Holland!  The Marais is free to rule over Paris, and may finally get to replace them in the King’s favor!”

“This evening’s performance is an event of great significance,” M. du Ryer observes. “The first gathering of the court since they returned to Paris! Such an honor and a distinction! And who best to portray the heroic Scevole than you, the most adored player in Paris… in all of France…!” He knows he exaggerates. Filandre was not well known in Paris until recently. He is an old friend of M. de Soûlas, who brought him from Belgium, as a form of appeasement perhaps, for leaving the Marais to become the director of its competitor. Besides, M. Moliére has been performing to raving audiences in the provinces even after his exile from Paris. But it is with the theater as it is with Kings: there cannot be a great troupe or a great actor outside of Paris, and at this moment, its King is Filandre, the actor who performs at the Marais.

Filandre does not seem to mind the exaggeration, and bows with a smile accepting the compliment. “And you, dear Cecille,” he says, addressing the young woman. “Are you ready to meet His Majesty this evening?” 

She smiles a coy smile, that forms soft dimples on her rosy cheeks. Hers is a rare beauty: the most elegant features, clear blue eyes, soft rounded lips that look like tender rose petals, and hair like silk, the color of gold. “No, Monsieur, how could I?” She lowers her eyes. “I am nervous…”

“Nothing to be nervous about, dear child!” he exclaims kissing her hand. “With your beauty and your art, you have nothing to fear. Paris must finally be introduced to its new Queen of the Stage!”

She giggles with satisfaction. “Do you think I may be introduced to the Dauphin, Monsieur?”

“But of course!” he retorts. “That is how it always is! You will be introduced to His Majesty and to the best of the best among his court! It is a great honor and a great opportunity!”

She looks right into his eyes, her innocent gaze completely baffled. “Opportunity, Monsieur? I do not understand…”

“Oh, but you will, my dear, when the time comes!” Filandre exchanges a look full of amusement with M. du Ryer, who has raised his eyes from the text he is editing. “But you must get yourself ready. Do not become too excited with anticipation for this evening. Rest in quiet contemplation, and work over your lines in your mind!” He kisses her hand again as she motions to leave the stage.  

“Dearest Cecille,” Filandre remarks once she is gone, “still a child…”

“A rare talent, though,” M. du Ryer responds, “and a rare beauty. It is my idea, and M. Robin agrees, that Mademoiselle du Pouget would be perfect for the part of Dynamis for our upcoming production!”

Filandre raises his hand in an elaborate manner, and strokes his perfectly shaped beard. “Dynamis? The Carian Queen, who must find a husband for she is young and widowed, like our very own Queen! That is an exceptional idea, M. du Ryer! Dear Cecille will have a chance to hone her art, with a part that demands the forceful resolve of royalty rather than the quiet resolve of a Roman noble faithful to her family values and her country. An excellent idea!”

“And if she is noticed tonight, my dear Filandre…”

“Ah… she will be M. du Ryer! For that I have little doubt. She is young, she is beautiful, she is talented, and she is a new face! There is nothing that both Paris and the court love more than a new face. After tonight, Mademoiselle du Pouget shall be the talk of Paris and the Queen of the Parisian stage… and in a fortnight she will portray a character styled after the Queen of France! Imagine all the possibilities…”

“No matter what happened between our two companies, M. de Soûlas, should be proud of his ward…” M. du Ryer observes thoughtfully. M. de Soûlas, who was called Floridor, served as director of the Marais for a number of years. Then his brother in law, M. le Messier, sold him his company, the troupe at the rue Mauconseil, known as the Comédiens du Roi at the Hôtel de Bourgogne, and M. de Soûlasleft the Marais along with the best actors and writers. It was a devastating hit. The fierce competition among the two troupes has been the talk of Paris for decades. The old King Louis favored the Bourgogne as much as Cardinal Richelieu favored the Marais. There was always much drama, and not always on stage.

But there is also understanding that talent should not be wasted. “Mademoiselle du Pouget,” M. de Soûlas intimated to M. Robin, the new director of the Marais, “is a rare talent that unfortunately may never find herself uttering more than a line on stage at the Bourgogne.” It was the sad truth. At the Hôtel de Bourgogne there were just too many contenders.Madame Gassot, Madame de la Chappe, Madame Béguin, and Madame Anzoult were already famous and competing for the best parts. The Marais boasted only the talent of Madame Petit. Besides, M. Robin, would have taken Mademoiselle du Pouget into the Marais even if she were not a rare talent: her beauty was striking and she could sing like an angel.

*****

There is a large crowd in front of the Marais at the Veille Rue du Temple, as everyone anxiously is waiting to see the courtiers arriving for the grand performance honoring the return of their Majesties to Paris. The Dauphin, the Queen, and the Prime Minister are expected to attend, which increases the anticipation of the people gathered.

It is a tentative truce that makes this night possible: the streets of the city may appear tame, but they are still ruled by the notorious M. Grimaud, his mercenaries, and his many allies. The Fronde has kept its militia at the city gates, pretending to have control of the city. For their part, the royal forces, the Musketeers and the Queen’s guards in particular, are responsible not only for keeping the royal family safe but also for maintaining a fragile balance, which can fall apart any moment. The royal arsenal was discovered empty upon the return of the Dauphin and Queen to Paris. Suspicion fell upon the man most capable of such a brazen act of treason: Lucien Grimaud. Rumor has it the Queen was enraged, and demanded no less than M. Grimaud’s head, only to be persuaded by the Prime Minister and her son, the Dauphin, that to execute the most powerful man in Paris, who now possesses not just powder but also cannons, would be a serious tactical error.

Carriages stop one after the other at the Vielle Rue du Temple in front of the old tennis court that became the Marais theater.  Everyone who is anyone in Paris arrives in pompous extravagance. Even M. Scarron who rarely leaves his rooms at the Rue de Turenne. He is accompanied by The Beautiful Indian, Mademoiselle d’ Aubignè. Madame Paulet, the Lioness follows with M. de Mènage. Even Madame de Montbazon is attending with her husband despite her association with M. de Beaufort. Raoul arrives in the carriage of M. de Guiche, who has promised him that at the end of this delightful evening there will be more entertainment for the two of them. “It will be intriguing! You will see,” he declares and Raoul wonders if that glint in his friend’s eye denotes pleasure or trouble.

Across the street from the theater the crowd is growing impatient. Raoul is certain that even the slightest delay on the part of the King and Queen might lead to another riot, or worse. And everyone who is anyone is now inside that theater. There is anger in the faces of the people but also anticipation and eagerness. Perhaps it is not all as bad as he imagines, but still he cannot shirk a feeling that the Prime Minister’s fragile truce is becoming more fragile with every passing moment. That is when he notices the boy: freckled, scrawny, with dirty red hair. No feathered hat of the Fronde this time. No musket twice his height. What was his name? Friquet! The General of the Streets. He stands still, despite being pushed by the agitated crowd, his eyes fixed not so much at the entrance of the theater but rather at a side door used by actors and stage-hands. Since nothing escapes this brilliant young man, he immediately recognizes Raoul. “Hey! Monsieur Officer!” he calls.

Raoul stops for a moment and approaches the boy with a smile. “Glad to see you again! You seem to have lost your hat.”

“Ah, Monsieur, indeed!” the boy sounds circumspect. “But times change. And you, you seem to have lost your Musketeer comrade!”

“He is arriving with the Dauphin as we speak,” Raoul replies, suddenly remembering de Thierry’s fake promise to the boy that M. le Prince would reward him for his services.

“I must thank him!” the boy exclaims flashing a big smile, all teeth. “I got to be a lieutenant in M. the Coadjutor’s militia. Not that I care much for it now….”

“You don’t?” That is an interesting turn of events, Raoul thinks.

“Not really,” he shrugs. “M. the Coadjutor was all words. Now there is someone who acts for our cause.” He gives Raoul a meaningful wink and begins to sing:

> _…It is the Man who stole the grain  
>  _ _The Man who rules the city  
>  _ _Whose name means light, though he is dark  
>  _ _And shows little pity..._

The people gathered around Friquet join in the song with enthusiasm. Indeed, Raoul thinks, times have changed. An idea occurs to him now. Perhaps this crowd is not all what it seems. He recalls how de Thierry managed to coax the boy that night they escaped Paris. 

“Congratulations then!” Raoul says. “To join the ranks of a better man is a great achievement! I gather you are here on a mission?”

“Chut!” the boy leans towards Raoul in a conspiratorial tone. “Yes, but it is a secret one. I have nothing to do with all these fools around here, who have gathered to gape at the carriages and the fancy clothes!” So, as far as Friquet knows, this crowd is not some new ploy by the Lucien Grimaud, Raoul thinks. “It is a more personal mission….” Friquet adds. 

“Perhaps I can be of assistance?” Raoul feigns, in the same conspiratorial tone. “After all, we have helped each other before! What are you interested in?” 

“I am interested in that!” the boy says, pointing at a banner for the play outside the theater. It announces that “Scevole, a dramatic play of love, nobility, and love of country, is to be presented, featuring the Great Filandre.” There is also a painting of a life-size Roman soldier holding a spear and a shield, who looks exactly like the great actor, only perhaps a bit too immaculate and manicured for a Roman soldier. The names of all the actors are listed underneath.”

“In the play?”

“No. In the actors!” Raoul is baffled. “One in particular,” Friquet continues. “They call her the new Queen of Paris! Ah! That one!” he exclaims pointing towards the side door used by actors and stage-hands. It is now opened, and a young lady has appeared at the threshold, peeking at the comings and goings and the large crowd. A few other faces join her, looking equally intrigued. Raoul can see the Great Filandre among them. It is not easy to tell much about the lady from this distance but he is suddenly reminded of Mademoiselle de la Valliere, and it makes his heart ache with sadness. There is something in the lady’s countenance and features, that even from such a distance, reminds him of the lady who holds his heart captive.

“Who is she?”

“Mademoiselle Cecille du Pouget, of course" the boy retorts. He sounds astonished that Raoul does not know.

“And this great man who rules Paris wants to know about her?” There is a plan afoot Raoul realizes, and it might help everyone if he finds out what it is.

“Perhaps he does, perhaps he doesn’t.” Friquet is not a fool.

“Well, I am going in that play. I can get you some information perhaps, if you tell me what you are looking for.”

The boy smiles again. “Oh, thank you Monsieur Officer! But that I cannot tell you and besides… I must get this mission accomplished by myself. But I hope I may count on you in the future?”

“Always. And I hope the same.” Raoul smiles back handing the boy two sous. The boy is brilliant and Raoul decides that he is an invaluable source now into the world of this new powerful adversary, M. Grimaud, whose intentions remain unclear, and his actions are shrouded in mystery.

“Who was that?” M. de Guiche inquires the moment Raoul approaches.

“A brilliant friend.”

“A friend?” the young Comte sounds astonished. “That is a filthy street urchin!”

“My mother has advised me, never to underestimate a child raised in the streets,” Raoul retorts. “And this child is exceptional…”

“I take your word for it!” M. de Guiche laughs. “For myself, I do not have much use for that unwashed lot…!”

The two of them move now closer to the theater entrance following the crowd of spectators going in. From somewhere in the crowd a voice cries “The King is arriving” and everyone cheers.

“By the way,” M. de Guiche, adds, as they enter into the theater. “I have made some arrangements for us after the performance!” 

“Such as?”

“How would you like to meet the glorious Mademoiselle Cecille du Pouget, my friend? The new Queen of the Parisian Stage?”

 

\--------

NOTES: 

  1. Translation of the legend:



Such a rigorous reform.  
Put everyone in disarray.  
It suffices that one is formed.  
At the will of his King.

  1. The stanza is from Scevole (II, 1, 379-384)- the translation is mine, slightly altered to maintain the rhyme



Original:

O Scevole! Ô grand coeur! Où regne la vertu  
Si j’ai par mes froideurs ton amour combatu,  
Si jamais cet amour qu’emporte ta belle Ame  
Ne tira de ma bouche un aveu de ma flamme,  
Je croi te satisfaire apres tant de douleurs  
Lors qu’entre Rome et toi je partage mes pleurs

  1. Filandre or Philandre was a real actor. His name was Jean Mathée although he may have been really called Jean Baptiste Mouchaingre. His life is not very well pieced together but he was a well-known actor of the period. He was probably born in 1616 and died in 1691. So, in 1648 he would be 32 years old. The description of his appearance in the story is based on an engraved portrait by Daret, dated in 1647.


  1. Pierre du Ryer (1606 – 6 November 1658) was a French dramatist. His early comedies resembled the work of the much-celebrated Alexandre Hardy but after the production of Corneille’s _Cid_ (1636,) he fashioned much of his work after Corneille. _Dynamis_ was a tragicomedy he wrote. It was published in 1652. _Scevole_ was his masterpiece and the first production of the play is thought to be in 1644 although sometimes 1646 is given also. So it definitely was not performed in 1648 (as in this story.) We know that a number of comedies and plays were performed at the Marais in the winter of 1648 but it felt better for the story to have the performance of a famous play for the return of the Dauphin and the court to Paris.


  1. The backstories for the Theatre de Marais and the Hôtel Bourgogne are entirely based on historical information, including theater contracts, performances, and lists of actors. I used a contract from 1647 for the actors at the Marais. Filandre must have left the troupe by the end of 1648 but earlier that year he was probably still performing with the company.


  1. Cecille du Pouget is a fictional character. I am using Magdeleine du Pouget’s name for this character. Magdeleine du Pouget was an actress at the Marais until 1641. She was the wife of the actor François Chastelet, who was called Beauchasteau.



 


	47. The Rules of Seduction

**Author: Mordaunt**

 

 _“His charming eyes no aid required_  
_To tell their softening tale,_  
_On her that was already fired,  
_ _‘Twas easy to prevail.”_

_The Willing Mistress (Aphra Behn 1673)_

He is mesmerized. Perhaps it is the restrained passion in her voice. Perhaps it is the sweetness in her features. Perhaps it is that she reminds him of Louise de la Valliere, whose memory he holds dear. Thinking about that first night when he saw her on stage at the Marais, Raoul recalls little about the play or the Great Filandre, whose performance was hailed as outstanding by the Queen, the Dauphin, and the court. All he could see was Mademoiselle du Pouget.

She curtsied lowering her eyes when de Guiche introduced them. “…And this, Mademoiselle, is the Vicomte de Bragelone. Do not be deceived by his simple title and his humility. In his native Venice he is a Prince, from a family of Princes that goes back to antiquity.” Raoul was uncomfortable with the introduction. He felt it made him appear less than he is. He bowed removing his hat, and congratulated her on her magnificent performance. She blushed but her eyes shone with satisfaction. She liked to be admired.

“If you were not my best friend,” M. de Guiche jokes as they ride back in his carriage, “I would have been mortally offended! I arrive prepared to enjoy Mademoiselle du Pouget. I introduce her to my best friend, and she chooses him instead!”

Raoul laughs sounding incredulous: “You did nothing of the sort. I am convinced you planned all this, just to witness my interaction with the lady!”

“And so I did!” M. de Guiche exclaims with enthusiasm. “I cannot have my best friend grieving about someone he can never have, nor should ever have! I thought I should find him a distraction. Admittedly, the entire affair provided ample distraction to me!”

It immediately occurs to Raoul that in his friend’s eyes, Mademoiselle du Pouget is nothing more than entertainment. He recalls M. de Rohan’s comment about bored aristocrats, who entertain themselves by playing with people. This is not the way he wants to think of M. de Guiche, whom he likes; M. de Guiche is better than that.

“Is that how you think of Mademoiselle du Pouget, Armand?” Raoul inquires his tone now serious. “As a mere distraction…?”

“What else could she be?” M. de Guiche shrugs. "She is an actress!”

“She is talented, and beautiful. Her Majesty declared that no performance has touched her heart as much as Mademoiselle du Pouget’s, and some say there were tears in the King’s eyes after her monologue…” Raoul interjects.

“ _Sangdieu_! Please tell me you are not in love with her! First de la Valliere, and now this one? Dearest friend, if you must be seduced by the blushing virginal ones, then by all means return to the one in Blois! I am no longer jesting…”

“I thought her quite similar to Mademoiselle de la Valliere,” Raoul confesses but immediately regrets it.

“What? The actress? Similar to Mademoiselle de la Valliere?” M. de Guiche is at once aghast and exasperated. “I may not think that Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s mother made a wise choice in marrying the Marquis de Saint Rémy, it is true, but Mademoiselle de la Valliere is in every way superior. No one can possibly compare the two. Please dear friend, tell me you can see the difference…”

Raoul cannot. Raoul will not. Besides, he keeps in his hand the most precious trophy from a night full of so many pleasant surprises: a key that Mademoiselle du Pouget secretly gave him. A key to the side door of the Marais, the one used by actors and stage-hands. “Come back at midnight,” she whispered.

*****

“Hail to the Queen of Paris,” M. Robin exclaims and the entire troupe raise their glasses to a beaming Cecille. She curtsies and raises her glass also: “To all of us, the players of the Marais!” It is late but the excitement of a night so perfectly successful keeps everyone from turning in. The Queen was touched. Some claim the Dauphin shed tears. When Their Majesties met with the actors they were both all smiles and words of encouragement. But Mademoiselle du Pouget has more reasons to be elated.

“Quite the catch you made, love!” Madame Petit says, giving Cecille a kiss. “The Comte de Guiche! There is no man more handsome, noble, or wealthy, except perhaps His Majesty!”

“M. de Guiche is acceptable, I suppose," the young woman sounds disinterested, and Madame Petit gasps in astonishment.

“Acceptable? Are you mad, child? A patron like M. de Guiche would be everyone’s dream!”

“A patron!” Cecille protests. “Is that what Filandre meant? Is that what this was all about?”

“What else?”

“M. de Bragelonne said he admired the power of my theatrical expression…” Cecille sounds peevish.

“M. de Bragelonne is either a great fool or a very clever man…” Madame Petit interjects. “Whichever he is, he is the Dauphin's favorite, I was told. And not at all displeasing to the eye. I suppose you could choose worse…”

“I asked him to return tonight,” Cecille intimates. “He had many beautiful things to say about my performance, and I love to hear his thoughts. He is so eloquent!”

“His thoughts, eh?” Madame Petit laughs.

“He declared that of all the players he has ever seen both here and in Venice, for he is a Venetian prince, I am the most compelling…” Mademoiselle du Pouget speaks with breathless enthusiasm. There is no sign of dissimulation in her discourse.

Madame Petit stops laughing and assumes a more serious countenance. That is not exactly what she expected. “My dear child, do you realize a young man’s admiration may go beyond your performance?”

“I do not follow you, Madame,” Cecille replies, quite confused. “You all speak in riddles.” 

“Be careful, dearest girl,” Madame Petit says. She sounds concerned now. “Young men are not always what they appear to be…”

*****

Moving along the Rue St. Martin, a different carriage carries the Comte de Renard and the Comte de Wardes back to court.

“Such a tedious bore that de Menagé,” the Comte de Wardes yawns, and lays back into his seat. He is handsome, in his late twenties: chiseled face and aquiline nose, pale skin, black hair, and dark blue eyes that lack the animation of feeling. There is a coldness in him that is at once alluring and ominous. He looks like a man who has seen it all; done it all. A man for whom life holds neither surprises nor promises. He is renowned in court for his aloofness, and sense of style, although in the latter he is completely outshined by M. de Guiche, whom he envies and hates at equal measure.

“That old hag, the Lioness, at least has a clever turn of phrase,” M. de Renard observes in the same tone. He is eager to match his friend in his disdain for society. “And Scarron…. That disgusting old fox. Does he only own one change of clothes, I wonder?” M. de Renard is aware of M. de Wardes’ feelings towards the Queen’s Patient, in whose salon he has never been invited. “D’ Aubigne is ripe for the taking though…” he adds.

“Was. I would not touch anything that revolting old snake has touched. She probably reeks of old man,” de Wardes sneers. “In fact, I would not touch anything styled ‘woman’ in that sorry lot tonight. Except perhaps…”

“Ah… that luscious little peach…” de Renard laughs. “So uncomplicated…”

 “So baseborn…” de Wardes adds with disdain. “She reeks of some godawful orphanage. Where did she say she was raised…?”

“Bicêtre, I think.”

“I have always wondered why they don’t drown all those orphans in the Seine instead of making the effort to feed them,” de Wardes shrugs.

“But had they done so,” de Renard laughs, “where would we be without the new Queen of the Stage?”

“I admit, she has some talent,” de Wardes remarks. 

“And some vulgar appeal, perhaps?” de Renard adds.

“True. There is something in her credulity, and all those declarations of virtue that I find deliciously appealing. I would like to know what that tastes like, de Renard: that banal plebeian sense of virtue. What would it feel like to take it, I wonder. That might be an interesting pastime. Unfortunately, she seemed attracted to that de Bragelonne.” De Wardes sounds petulant and resentful. “De Guiche’s new friend and the Dauphin's favorite, the one they say is a Venetian Prince…"

“He is the one I spoke to you about,” de Renard interjects. “He is no prince. He is the son of a murdering whore and a traitor…”

“Anne de Winter, is that not his mother?” de Wardes observes, his tone inscrutable. “My father had her once or twice. She worked in that notorious brothel owned by Madame Solange. My father took me there when I was seven. He used to say that Anne de Winter is a dangerous viper, whose bite is both deadly and unforgettable. I would not object to being bitten by her. My father never regretted it…”

“Bragelonne’s father is Athos de la Fére…” de Renard insists. "The previous Captain of Musketeers…”

“A peculiar parentage! I have heard of the man. He and those other three brutes, his so-called friends, including the man who is now Prime Minister, murdered my cousin Estienne Marcheaux not so long ago. He was Captain of the Red Guard before it was disbanded. He despised all four, especially our current Captain of the Musketeers and that bitch, his wife…”

“Well this de Bragelonne is now the Dauphin's favorite and could be granted the fortune and titles that belong to me!” de Renard exclaims.

“Complaining about your lost fortune is trite,” de Wardes shrugs, “and trite bores me. Besides, de Bragelonne currently possesses something far more important than your titles that I want to claim for myself: Mademoiselle du Pouget. It is unthinkable to me that he will experience the thrill of taking that plebeian maidenhead. I want that and I must have it.” 

“It can be arranged…” de Renard sounds compliant but also vexed by his interlocutor’s comments.

“It is already arranged, friend,” de Wardes retorts, his tone softer now, as if trying to appease an ally of some significance. “It occurs to me that we can both pursue our causes at the same time: destroy de Bragelonne in the eyes of the King, and get the first taste of that delicious little peach of the Marais.”

“You have a plan then?” de Renard sounds entirely appeased by the promise of revenge.

“I have more than a plan. I have procured a meeting with the new Queen of the Stage. The Great Filandre will do anything for a bag of coin, and the hope of my patronage. I have also procured the way into that mystical temple of art that is the Marais after hours,” he scoffs, pulling a key out of his pocket.

*****

Raoul returned to the Marais after midnight. He was not sure what to expect. Nothing. Everything. She was timid at first. She loved to hear his voice, she said, but in truth she loved to hear him adore her. De Guiche was correct: she had nothing in common with Mademoiselle de la Valliere. He cared little for that. He kissed her lips and they were sweet like honey. He tasted her body and it was fragrant, and warm, and malleable.

He kept returning…

 

 


	48. Vanity's Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flea brings Lucien important information about a young woman - is this his missing daughter?
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _‘Vanity working on a weak head…produces every sort of mischief (Jane Austen)_

Abruptly he stood and stalked to the windows. ‘What is it?’ Flea glanced uncertainly at Friquet and followed Lucien. She took his arm to turn him back to her, worry furrowing her brow. ‘You seem angry.’

‘I am…’ he hesitated. He was angry – furious at the situation in which they were entangled. It would make no difference to him or his reputation. But it could ruin her and their children. Damn Treville. Damn Athos.

‘I am frustrated,’ he said and took her hand, ‘this is where the trail has led us. She may not be ours - we do not have definitive proof.’ He had no idea what definitive proof would be.

‘Yes,’ agreed Flea. ‘All we know is the same name and age and orphanage. It’s not enough Lucien.’

‘You must go and meet her,’ declared Flea, ‘you need to take her measure.’ He snorted in derision, ‘I believe Friquet has seen enough of her…measure,’ he spat out the last word and looked at the boy.

‘You have told it as it was,’ he asked the boy sternly, ‘no embellishments on your part?’ Flea looked annoyed at Lucien’s temper toward the boy but held her sharp tongue. She knew Lucien was not angry at Friquet – a boy he had always treated well. Lucien’s anger was stirred at anything or anyone he could not command and control. The situation now was beyond either – for the present.

‘No sir,’ replied Friquet meekly. He knew M Grimaud to be a fair master and he had never had cause to be afraid of his temper. He spoke simply – and honestly. Lucien grunted and turned away. He picked up cloak and threw it around his shoulders. Watching him, Flea felt a pang of sadness and fierce protectiveness toward him.

‘Just go and talk to her,’ she urged again. He inclined his head to settle his hat, turning his face to her.

‘I must talk to Sophia first,’ he said softly. Flea nodded and took his arm and held it tightly not sure what to say. He covered her small hand with his and gave a slight squeeze, kissed her cheek and was gone.

>>

‘An actress!’ she exclaimed. ‘Are you certain this is what she said?’ Sophia stopped walking and stared after him in disbelief.

Lucien turned to see her standing with her hand pressed to her mouth. She pushed back her hair with a distracted gesture of distress and frowned at him willing him to tell her she had misunderstood him. It could not be true. In her society, actresses were considered little more than well-dressed women of dubious morals. Their hints of intimacies and beguiling tricks were of a quality more alluring and mysterious than what was proffered by their less artistic counterparts walking the streets of Paris, but loose women none the less. Compensation could be substantial for a young woman who knew how to use her play-acting skills to advantage.

‘I suppose there are far worse outcomes,’ she mused forlornly. The girl might have a patron and if she was beautiful, a rich or powerful man to provide for her – at least until he tired of her and passed her to another. She felt slightly ill and raked her hair back again.

Lucien stepped closer to her, pulling her cloak around her. They were walking along the pathway next to the river. It was late in the afternoon and the air was chilled, a cold breeze coming off the river. There was a pallor under her cheeks reddened from the cold air. She trembled slightly but not from the cold.

‘Do we know how long she has been with the theatre company?’ she asked anxiously. He shook his head and shrugged, ‘she ran away. Friquet learned that she was adopted years ago by M Floridor. She is well known.'

‘Is she…’ she hesitated, ‘spoken for?’ Her voice caught. She leaned her forehead against his shoulder and closed her eyes.

‘Friquet saw her in the company of several man the night he watched her,’ he said. ‘She was quite a sensation and after the performance, she was received by the King and the court.’

‘Dear heaven,’ she murmured. Theatre, the court….’ She pushed away from him and wrapped her arms around herself.

She had hated her brief life in the palace and the court. Fawning courtiers, shifting alliances seeking the power conferred with the King’s favor, the relentless gossip and rumors, petty jealousies, games of seduction and conquest that characterized the lives of bored, rich and indolent nobles, women casually traded among men. Treville and Athos had protected her from most of it and then she had left the court. The years following had been occasionally punctuated with messages from the Queen to attend on her, but for the most part, she had been left to her unconventional marriage and her children away from Paris.

‘I attended the theatre once,’ she told him, ‘I recall being told that Richelieu had been an enthusiastic patron. I think he even wrote a play,’ she said raising her brow in wonder.

‘Shall I ask the Duchess about her uncle’s interest in the theatre?’ she asked, clearly implying the deceased Cardinal’s attraction to the theatre may have been more than literary.

Lucien smiled faintly. He remembered the times she had been called to the court by the Queen. He was furious at the summons and had vehemently objected to her staying in the palace, demanding that she give reasons that required her to reside in her family home. At every event she attended he insisted on waiting with the carriage, pacing restlessly until she arrived. She worried at giving offense to the Queen. He was fearful of her being used as a pawn in political court games or toyed with as an exercise of capricious power by the Queen and her sycophantic court.

She had no choice but to submit to the Queen’s bidding. It infuriated him, but he had little recourse. He did what he could to try and protect her by making it known to the Minister of Finances, M d’ Emery, of the consequences to the treasury should his wife be abused. Any inclination the Queen may have had to play with the Duchess’ life was met with careful redirection by her Prime Minister and the nervous Minister of Finances – who seemed to think that M Grimaud would hold him personally responsible for his wife. While her husband’s occupation was important to the war effort, it was also prudent not to ignore his dangerous reputation.

In the end, it was of no importance to her Majesty whether the Duchess de la Croix spent the night in a palace bedchamber or with her husband – the Queen had her own nighttime secrets to protect. There were sufficient quantities of courtiers with whom a Queen could tease and toy.

He took her arm, tucking it under his and led her back down the path toward their apartments. It was getting colder. If this conversation was going to continue, they needed to be inside warmed by a fire.

He settled her on the sofa and handed her a glass of wine. He braced his hands against the mantle staring into the fire. He rubbed his forehead wearily. Where had they thought she could have gone? What fate awaited a young woman relying upon her wits to survive.

He turned to his wife to ask her this very question, but one look at her troubled face made him pause. She hoped, against reason and understanding, that her daughter, who she saw as an abandoned baby, had somehow miraculously found a pathway to safety, relying on the hopefully named Daughters of Charity to be of kind hearts who had cared for a tiny babe and where lascivious men would not prey upon her innocence. She knew the world as well as he did – but could not help but pray her stolen child had been spared the worst of it.

He sat next to her and folded her into his arms. ‘I will go to the theatre in the Marais. There may be more to learn.’

‘I will go with you,’ she looked up at him earnestly. He shook his head gently stroking her cheek.

‘You cannot go there,’ he said, ‘you know that is unwise.’ It was one thing for a noblewoman to go to a play in company with the King and the court, but an entirely different matter for her to make an extemporaneous visit to the theatre of the infamous and flamboyant M Filander. Benign tolerance of their unorthodox life would not extend that far. She frowned with impatience but did not argue with him.

‘Friquet described her with very fair hair. Perhaps she is not…’ her voice trailed away. He took her hand, ‘Samy,’ he said. She nodded, ‘yes…my father had fair hair.’ As did their only son. Their daughters had dark hair, their eyes varying shades of blue, brown and hazel.

‘I will go and see her. Let us start with that,’ he said. She looked away from him to the fire, her mind racing, ‘what if she enjoys this life of hers? What if she does not want us? She may not feel any affection for those who abandoned her – she will not know of the circumstances….’

Lucien held his fingers to her lips to stop the flow of bad outcomes they had yet to face. ‘Sophia - let me go to see her. Then we can talk reasonably about all of it.’ She pursed her mouth unhappily, her eyes flitting around the room as were her anxious thoughts.

‘Please try to calm yourself and contain these imaginings,’ he implored her. ‘I will go to see her.’

>>

The boy Friquet riding behind him grasped his arm and slid to the ground. Lucien dismounted and stood across from the theatre of the Marais. It was a multistoried long rectangular building extending back from the street. Clever thought Lucien, for the theatre owners to make use of former tennis courts, complete with gallery for an audience. He studied the outer façade noting the wide doors fronting the street. Long banners draped the front, proclaiming the current production and the actors performing in it. He saw her name at the very top of the announcement.

He looked around at the adjacent buildings and street of the fashionable Marais. His wife had a house in this district as did many aristocratic families. He glanced back at the theatre building. He had little interest in the theatre although he thought the plays of Moliere, currently performed in the provinces, would be more to his liking than what the King preferred.

He looked at the boy who pointed to the front door. ‘That door is unlocked when the players are there or M Filander or the other one,’ he said, pulling his coat tighter and wrapping his thin arms around himself against the chill in the air. ‘Their rooms where they get ready are in the back. She has a room of her own there.’

For the first time Lucien realized he hadn’t thought about her living quarters and he wondered if she had an apartment in this building. Friquet might know, but he didn’t want to talk to him about it now. He handed the boy the reins, ‘there’s a tavern,’ he tilted his head toward a low building. ‘Get something to eat.’ He handed him some coins and crossed the street.

He pushed open the door and stepped into an elongated room. He paused to look around. At one end of the long room was an archway extending the width of the room marking the beginning of the raised stage area. At the opposite end of the long room was a series of risers for attendees who preferred to sit rather than stand in the open area that fronted the stage. As he crossed the open floor, he noted the several levels of galleries that lined the open space and extended along the sides of the stage.

Two men were sitting in chairs close to the stage and bent over a sheaf of papers. They were fully engaged in conversation. At the sound of his boots on the floor, they turned toward him.

‘Monsieur, we are not open,’ called out one of the men raising his hands to shoo him away. Lucien narrowed his eyes, disliking the theatrical display of dismissal. The man was arrayed in colorful pantaloons, his tunic was of a similar color and brocaded with a deeper hue. The other man was attired in dress less gaudy and did not wave his hands at him with dramatic flourishes. Lucien liked him considerably better.

He came to a stop in front of the two men, surveying them with open distaste. Dandified nitwits thought Lucien irritably.

‘I’m looking for Cecille,’ he said sharply. The men stared back at him. They were clearly uncertain if they should insist that he leave or run themselves. He looked down and blew out his cheeks to rein in his display of temper, smiled at them and said with an effort at more charm and formality, ‘Mademoiselle du Pouget if you please gentlemen.’

The two men exchanged a knowing glance. With expert eyes for dramatic effect they appraised the man in front of them. He was handsomely severe and expensively elegant in dress. He was tall, the muscularity of his broad shoulders and chest not created or even assisted by fine tailoring. There was no need for the subtle padding used by vain men. He had strong arms and a graceful power that no tailor could manufacture. His cloak was a deep purple, his boots of the finest leather and he wore one gold ring with a ducal crest. The two men smiled inwardly at this wealthy man. Already, the beautiful Cecille was attracting attention from rich patrons. She would surely bring prestige and fame to the fledgling theatre company. They could rely on a successful season with her.

‘Is she expecting you?’ the overdressed and affected man had a proprietary air and imperious tone. Lucien suppressed an impulse to shove his fist into the man’s face.

‘No,’ he said shortly. The two men looked at him steadily and then shrugged. The second man gave directions to her rooms.

He nodded and turned to the stage. It’s height from the floor was slightly less than his own and he put his hands on its edge and vaulted to stand on the stage. Behind his back, the the two men watching him exchanged glances and raised their brows at this display of physical power. Lucien walked across the stage his cloak billowing behind him, stepping over several tracks and around tall poles at the back of the stage. Ropes and pulleys draped down from the ceiling and stacks of scenery were leaning against the back wall. Racks of clothing, chairs, tables with neatly organized objects were set to the side of the stage.

He went through another door into a narrow hallway narrowed further by boxes, crates, thick coils of rope and more racks with clothing, and tables filled with an assortment of objects most likely used during scenes of a play. He continued along the hallway to a series of doors. He counted out the number and stopped in front of a door with peeling brown paint and a battered name plate into which was inserted a piece of parchment with the name 'Mlle du Pouget’ written on it. He raised his hand, hesitated for a moment and knocked once. A high feminine voice answered, and he heard footsteps coming closer. He stepped back to wait for the door to open.

It was Friquet who had told him that this girl was known to have come from the orphanage Bicetre. She was considered to have a lovely singing voice and to be talented. Men were attracted to her and it was said that she was very beautiful.

A memory arose – of the first time he had seen Sophia after an absence of many years. She was but a few years older than this girl. It had been at a salon in crowded rooms aglow with the light from hundreds of candles in immense crystalline chandeliers. Glassware glittered in the refracted light, sparkling conversation and laughter floating through the room from the clusters of artists and writers, their well-dressed patrons or political figures and even a mysteriously handsome and stylish pirate or two.

Like colorful birds, small flocks of women circled within the assembly. Sultry dark-haired beauties, porcelain silky blondes and red-haired sirens - the scents of perfume in their wake, displaying their charms and attractions in colorful dresses, the teasing rustle of satin and silk inspiring lascivious visions as to what lay beneath. They were beautiful in the fashion of heart-shaped face, round pink cheeks and rosebud mouth, gentle lines of jaw and chin.

It was a different face that caught his attention. Pity the small colorful bird whose features, once perfect would fade to insipid when compared against her strong beauty of defined jaw and chin, high wide cheek bones and planed cheeks, a determined brow. Her mouth was too large and sensual for a woman and her full lips could fire a man’s imagination. Her nose was perfectly proportioned but with an interesting imperfection from some previous injury. Her shining mahogany hair was artlessly assembled, threatening to fly free altogether from its tethers of pins and ribbons and he could already feel his heat rising imagining his hands lost in its silky mass of curls. She moved through the crowded room with lithe grace offering an ambiguous smile or a reserved hand to those who greeted her. Intriguing iridescent blue eyes winked beneath their shroud of long dark lashes. This woman held her secrets close. Beside her, others looked bland and displayed their attributes openly. But this woman challenged a man to discover her. She had captivated him that night and every night since.

The door opened and the young woman who stood before him was lovely – delicate porcelain skin, fair haired and wide blue eyes, rosebud mouth and pink cheeks. She stood still for a long moment, letting him take in her beauty and then she gave a slight nod of accord with what she presumed to be his admiring assessment and smiled at him knowingly. She held out her hand for him to kiss and bow over. He did neither. He stared at her hand for a long moment and then took it in his. He held it gently as though he held a small pale bird in his palm. He thought of the hands of his daughters – they took his hand to swing playfully between them as they walked, or in the busy market to not get lost, or if trouble appeared for his protection and their security – they took his hand with trust that he would never let go and he never did.

He realized this girl did not offer her hand for any of these reasons. Rather, she was letting him hold her hand, a gift that he would want from her. He almost dropped it as though it burned his skin. He smiled and gently released her hand.  
‘I wanted to meet you,’ he said with a pleasant tone, ‘You are much admired in Paris for your,’ he paused, suddenly seeing his wife’s worried eyes, ‘artistry,’ he finished.

‘I am pleased you have come to see me Monsieur,’ she chirped at him from behind guileless wide blue eyes. Were these eyes so innocent he wondered? Or was this who she thought he wanted her to be – for him. She would have learned how to please. At Bicetre, a child who could win the approval of the switch wielding nuns and the Matron could win an extra piece of bread or avoid the punishments of the chair.

‘May we talk?’ he asked her and looked around the room for a place to sit. There was a small chaise angled into a corner of the room. Pillows were propped invitingly at one end and a large shawl covered the other end. He did not want to sit next to her so closely. He scooped an armful of clothes from one chair and set it on another, dragging the empty chair toward the chaise. He inclined his head with a smile to indicate she should sit on the chaise. She giggled charmingly and as she sat, he lowered himself into the chair.

‘You may not stay long,’ she informed him with a regretful look. ‘I am engaged this afternoon.’

‘I regret you are already occupied Mademoiselle. I will not take your time,’ he said. He realized that she had not asked him for his name.

‘I hope you enjoyed the play,’ she smiled again as her hand drifted to touch her fair hair and the fluff her skirt, drawing his attention first to her silky hair and then to her slender figure. She assumed he had seen the play already. He had not.

‘And I will be there tonight,’ he assured her smoothly. She beamed with approval and once again misunderstood his statement as indicating he was coming to see her performance a second time. ‘Might we meet afterwards,’ he asked her.

‘I am sorry,’ she said contritely, ‘but I am engaged this afternoon and after the performance.’ She feigned an unhappy look, pouting prettily.

‘You are much in demand,’ he said. Her eyes lit up, ‘yes!’ she said breathlessly, ‘I have received many compliments. I was introduced to the King,’ she informed him proudly. ‘He told me he had a tear at my monologue.’

‘That is remarkable,’ he exclaimed and gave an admiring chuckle at which she inclined her head in a feigned show of gratitude and humility. She turned her head to catch her reflection in the mirror studying the effect of her efforts and patting her hair. She smiled at her reflection.

‘You are the toast of Paris Mademoiselle,’ he wondered if there was any flattery that would catch her attention as disingenuous. But she simply raised her brow and nodded at his remark.

‘It has been an extraordinary experience for me,’ she raised and lowered her blue eyes charmingly. He watched her absently twist a stray lock of her blond hair. It was a charming motion – intended to let his imagination wander to what that silky hair would feel like in his fingers or to have her fingers tangled in his own hair. The design of her actions filled him with dismay. Did she know what she was doing, or did it come of its own accord? Were there no older experienced actresses in this company to guide her in this world? Or were they jealous of her beauty and the attentions of the men she was receiving? He wondered how the Matron would view her favorite.

‘Tomorrow evening perhaps?’ she asked him her eyes alight with hope. ‘I would love to hear your opinion of the play and your thoughts on my performance.’ Her hand drifted close to his own, ‘your ring is very beautiful,’ she said and traced the ducal crest and his hand with her own small delicate finger. ‘Is this your crest?’

He controlled the impulse to yank his hand away – this girl might be his daughter. He wanted to shout this at her to stop her galling flirtations with him. Instead, he held his hand up and away from her exploring fingers to show the ring at better advantage.

‘My family crest,’ he replied and folded his hands together and place them primly in his lap.

‘We shall meet tomorrow evening’ he said firmly. ‘Here?’ He waved his hand around the room. Aside from the chaise it was crowded with racks of clothing and chairs heaped with discarded clothing. Candles were lit in footed candelabras placed on rectangular table illuminating the silvered surface of a large mirror. The table surface was cluttered with small pots arrayed in no order and scattered throughout were colored pencils and slips of cloth and tiny brushes to apply the artificial faces that were worn on the stage. Elaborate wigs sat on molded frames and ribbons of all variety hung at random around the mirror.

‘I have rooms upstairs,’ she answered shyly and glanced at him from hooded eyes. Dear heaven he thought.

At the door he turned to look down at her. She tilted her head back prettily and lay a hand on his arm. She was smaller than Sophia and appeared somehow intangible and insubstantial.

He never thought about Sophia being tall or short or her substance. She simply fit against his size and strength, head nestled between shoulder and chest, her wondrous hair tickling his neck, her form slender in his arms but strong and spirited. She had an exuberant competence to her movements, an air of curiosity. In her remarkable blue eyes gleamed a miraculous merger of intelligence, humor and vitality that flowed from her to encompass all those around her.

He searched for these qualities in the wide blue eyes that looked coquettishly at him. Could this girl be their daughter?


	49. Promises

**Author: Mordaunt**

 

_If yet I have not all thy love,  
Dear, I shall never have it all… _

_(John Donne 1572-1631, Love’s Infiniteness)_

 

The letter arrived in the morning with a regular messenger from Paris. It was a letter from Porthos.

 

> _December 27, 1648_
> 
> _Dear Friend,_
> 
> _I remain in Paris. All the regiments have been grounded, first because of recent events, and second, because of the winter that has already descended upon us. We are not to join the Prince in Flanders at the moment. My men are growing impatient, and frankly so am I._
> 
> _I am advised not to trouble you. I am told that you are facing impossible odds. Let me assure you that this bad news remains within a very small circle of old and dear friends, for we understand that you would not want it to distract a certain young man. He knows nothing about his beloved mother._
> 
> _Despite the advice not to trouble you, I feel I must speak to you about recent events, for you must know everything. The facts are these: those who should never have left Paris, exited in secret. It was an audacious move, and it would have failed, had a young cavalier not intervened. Many might call his actions reckless. Just like you, I was raised a Musketeer, so to me his actions are a testimony of his legacy and his intellect. His intervention has procured him a high position. This can always change, as you well know. Rest assured I will do anything to keep him safe. By now he has many and faithful friends, some, I understand, among the Musketeers. I thought that should make you proud._
> 
> _Meanwhile, the city has fallen under the spell of a criminal. You may remember him: Lucien Grimaud, the fiend who murdered our Captain. He rules the streets now. They even write songs about him! Would you believe it? He does as he pleases, despite a truce and amnesty that finally allowed everyone to return to Paris. It is a truce that may dissolve any moment. Two political parties playing a card game with a marked deck, while a criminal holds all the aces. It is a sad state of affairs, if you ask me: for Their Majesties, for the Prime Minister, for the nobles, for the army, and for the citizen militia. The only winner is this murderer._
> 
> _I must return to the peril that you face alone now. It grieves me that I misspoke about this very matter, and I must apologize. I was proven wrong in every way, and in the worst manner possible. I was unjust and unfair to the lady, your wife. I know you will disapprove of this next part, for you are a discriminating man, who cares about all subtleties of conduct. But you know me, dear friend: I do not care much about such things, and I always speak and act from the heart._
> 
> _I took the liberty of discussing this matter with my dear wife, the Marquise. She is of the same mind. Marie Cessette is an extremely capable young woman, albeit on occasion prone to too much reading (but I think you of all people will appreciate this.) She helped her mother, caring for all her siblings, especially after Olivier’s birth, when, as you may remember, my dearest wife became ill. I will not ask for your permission on this occasion, for you are always too proud and aloof. But in my experience, dear friend, this is not a good time to be either. I have asked Marie Cessette to join you at Bragelonne, and assist you at this difficult time. In these matters, men are most often useless._
> 
> _Know that you have friends who care and love you,_
> 
> _One for All—All for One_
> 
> _Porthos_

 

Athos smiles inadvertently at his friend’s reckless decision to send a letter with a regular messenger, a letter that could have been intercepted by anyone, to a man the Queen considers a traitor. He can see Porthos dismissing the entire thing as complete nonsense: “Let them read it!” he would declare in his deep sonorous voice. “What is it they will learn that they do not know already? That we two were once brothers in arms, and still love each other?” 

There is a truce and an amnesty now of course that protects them both, but neither Porthos nor Athos are great believers in such tentative arrangements, and according to Porthos this particular truce is more tentative than most. The rest of the letter raises all sorts of concerns. About Raoul most of all. For the moment he is the King’s favorite…

That much both Athos and Alessandra already know.

The Duchess of Orléans made sure she communicated the latest gossip from Paris, when she last paid Alessandra a visit, right before the time for her confinement.  Alessandra was not happy. “Did you know this?” she demanded of Athos immediately after the Duchess departed.

He knew this discussion was long overdue. “I knew some of it,” he admitted. Athos took a deep breath and stood before Alessandra recounting everything: about the patrol looking for Raoul on the road to Blois, and about d’ Artagnan’s note from Rouen describing Raoul’s intervention that safeguarded everyone, including his parents.

“You told me he was in Paris with Porthos,” Alessandra remarked, quietly. Athos would much rather she was enraged or at least irritated. But she was neither, and it made him even more uncomfortable.

“I… I thought it best, to tell you once I found out more about all of it…” he mumbled.

She was reclining on a comfortable settee in her room. She leaned back resting her head against the pillows, her eyes looking into his, her demeanor inscrutable. “So, Raoul did not write to you, telling you he is in Paris with Porthos?” she inquired. 

He feigned a slight cough trying to give himself more time to think of a good answer. There was none: “No, he did not.”

“So, you lied,” she continued in the same inscrutable tone.

“I did not!” He felt defensive. “I was not sure what to tell you. I am still not sure what the truth is, and what is idle gossip. Paris is too far these days, and I can no longer rely on anyone for information. And, Alessandra, you are not well, you should not be upset…” He sat next to her on the settee, frustrated by his own incoherent excuses.

“You lied,” she insisted quietly.

He lowered his eyes. “Yes. Yes, I did. I lied.”

She raised herself carefully and reached for his hand. “I want you to look at me,” she said quietly. “I lied,” he repeated slowly, raising his gaze, “and I did it so that I would not upset you.”

She cupped his face with her hands and kissed him fondly. “You are a very good man Athos de la Fére,” she said with a smile, “but not a very good liar. I know, because I am a notorious one.” She kissed him again forcing him to look at her. “Promise never to lie to me again. Remember, I will know if you do…” 

He walks into the salon now, with Porthos’ letter in his hand. Alessandra is supposed to be in confinement but she declared she will do nothing of the sort. “Religious nonsense,” she scoffed, and he was in full agreement, although he would never urge her one way or other. But the thought of not seeing her until their child is born is deeply distressing. It had been the same with Sylvie although she had insisted on adhering to what was expected. She had thought it good for the child. Athos cannot fathom being separated from his wife; not holding her nor feeling his daughter’s small fist reaching for the palm of his hand, every time Alessandra lays in bed. He refuses to think about it, but he is also well aware of the real danger, for Alessandra has grown weak over the months and the physician is fearful. He is determined not to waste one precious moment with her, and she seems determined to do the same. She has not spoken of her fears, and he feels that to speak of his would be unseemly. So, they continue as if nothing extraordinary has befallen them; as if extraordinary things only happen outside the small estate of Bragelonne. They rarely reach them these days, news of all these extraordinary things, with messages and letters just like the one Athos received.

Alessandra reads Porthos’ letter carefully. She sits comfortably on the sofa by the lit fireplace, her feet resting on a small pretty footstool. Athos expects some comment about Lucien Grimaud, but she makes none.

“That is why Raoul stopped writing,” is the only thing since says. 

“He seems quite absorbed by his new life,” Athos remarks, sitting next to her.

She smiles, looking up from the letter. “This, and the fact that I would have known immediately from his letter that something was not right…”

He laughs: “I admit, I want to know what he did exactly…”

She laughs too, “I fear he is becoming more like you every minute. Musketeer friends and all…”

He wraps his arms around her shoulders and pulls her close to him, his tone turning grave. “I worry that he has placed himself in peril. The Queen will never forgive either of us. I am not sure where Aramis stands. But our son is right there, in their immediate grip. They may pretend to be indebted to him now, but…”

“I think you should go to Paris,” she says quietly. “In disguise…”

“I am not leaving you here alone, Alessandra, not at this time” he retorts. “Raoul is in no immediate danger. He has proven himself a resourceful and courageous young man, and we still have many friends in Paris, who will protect him. He has his own friends too…”

She rests her head on his chest and he kisses her. She closes her eyes. “Promise me,” she says quietly after a while. “Promise me that if something happens… that if I am not here for him…” She stops, as if trying unable to find a way to say what she really wants to say. “It is wise for your friend to propose sending his daughter. If something happens, you will need help and company. I cannot imagine you being all alone again…”

He touches her chin, gently raising her face towards his. “Please do not speak about such things. Do not think of such things…” he whispers.

“I must,” she replies. There is not much feeling in her tone, despite her words. He admires her ability to sound so dispassionate. “I worry about what might happen, Athos. About what is most likely to happen. I think of you alone here, of Raoul, of this poor child…”

He places his finger softly on her lips. “Do not speak about such things,” he repeats. “But know this: I will always love and take care of all our children. This is a promise.”

 

That evening, while alone in her bedroom Alessandra picks pen and paper. It is time:

 

> _January 17, 1648_
> 
> _Dear Friend,_
> 
> _I am told I did not dream of your beloved face. I am told you helped us escape. I am told you saved my life and that of my child. It is the second time. I am not sure there are ways to thank you, or ways to love you more. This time of course, you also saved him. It must have been very difficult, and I love you all the more for what you did. I know you disagree. I know you disapprove. I know you think I am caught once again in that old trap, from which I never escape unscathed. I am not sure why I keep returning. It will probably be the same again, if I survive this moment._
> 
> _It is because of this moment that I feel I must write to you asking you for yet another favor. I fear that I may not be able to see my son again. Worse, I fear that I may not be able to protect him, for he finds himself right at the center of the den of vipers that is the court of France. You are a powerful man, more powerful than any other of that arrogant lot. It gives me such pleasure that they dance to your tune now, even though I am certain you care very little about all of it._
> 
> _I must ask you one final favor, love: to make sure he is kept safe and well. He has his father’s old friends. He also has his own friends now. I am told, there are Musketeer among them. But I trust none of these people: their lofty ideals and noble sentiments always get in the way of common sense. I trust no one but you._
> 
> _If this is the last time we speak, please know that I have loved and trusted no one more than you, since the first day when I opened my eyes to see your beautiful face at that house in the Marais. You are the brother I always wish I had._
> 
> _All my love for ever,_
> 
> _Anne_

 

Early the next morning a message arrives from Paris. It arrives as most secret messages do, safely folded inside the double walls of one of the large barrels that travel from Paris with supplies for the kitchens at Bragelonne. It bears d’ Artagnan’s seal. That alone places the Captain at immense risk, so the message is probably both serious and urgent. Athos breaks the seal, his heart pounding.

 

> _December 20, 1648_
> 
> _Dear Friend,_
> 
> _I must write under my seal so that you know that what is imparted in this message is true. I must tell you at the outset that although I noticed the lady, I would not have troubled you had I not been prompted by the one whom we love as a brother, but have considered distant and impervious, since his life has taken a path very different from ours. Here are the facts:_
> 
> _Catherine de Garouville is now at court. The Queen has invited her as a lady-in-waiting. She is now Baroness de Renard. Yes, I believe it is the de Renard we all know. She had a son too with him, a certain Comte de Renard. He is one of the ambitious courtiers flocking around the young King. I understand he is a close friend of the Comte de Wardes. Our old friend thought you should know all this immediately, and in considering all the connections, I am of the same mind._
> 
> _One for All—All for One_
> 
> _Charles_

Athos reads this astonishing message over and over, trying to grasp all its implications. This is a clever scheme, but the machinations behind it, he cannot determine nor fathom. He knows Alessandra will. Should he share it with her in her condition? Then he remembers his promise. He walks to her bedroom, still uncertain.

“Monsieur le Comte!” Alessandra’s young maid greets him at the door. She looks agitated.

“You must call the midwife and the doctor immediately!” she exclaims. “It has started.”


	50. The Good Daughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucien follows the trail of his missing daughter into the world of theatre. Is this where he will finally know the truth?
> 
>  
> 
> “You could only ever see a thing when you were standing outside of it.”  
> ( Karin Slaughter, The Good Daughter )

‘She was flirting with you,’ said Sophia. ‘A girl of 16 years beguiling a man of your years, yet she didn’t ask your name.’

They were sitting on a small sofa in front of the fireplace in the library of her ancestral home in the fashionable Marais. A footed candelabra sat on a nearby table – the only light other than the fire. Three of the four walls were covered in bookcases, the tall windows of the fourth wall covered with heavy drapes against the cold night. It was very late. He had just returned from the night at the theater, watching the play and then sitting in the carriage under cover of darkness to observe who came and went through the narrow side door.

Lucien yawned and stretched his legs and let his feet drop to the thick carpet. He rested his head against the back of the sofa and turned over her hand he was holding in his own, ‘trying to beguile,’ he clarified with a wry smile. ‘I’m not easily lured.’ She smiled faintly.

‘Did you like the play?’ she asked curiously. He shrugged. ‘She was…fetching,’ he said. ‘I’m not much of a judge of it,’ he was tired. ‘She got a great deal of applause,’ he offered. Annoyed at the brevity of his remarks Sophia started to speak and then stopped. The play did not matter.

‘You are sure it was the aide of General du Vallon you saw with her?’ she asked. ‘Yes,’ he replied tersely. He had been leaving as a young man was entering, his head down and hat obscuring his face and instantly knew the young man was there for her. Irritated, he bumped him rudely, the young man stepping quickly to the side touching his hat and murmuring, ‘apologies Monsieur.’ Neither man looked at the other.

‘He had a key,’ said Lucien. ‘There was another, much later in a black carriage. I didn’t recognize the carriage,’ he said, ‘no great ducal crest to identify the unfaithful husband.’ He smiled playfully at her.

‘Friquet followed the carriage, so we know where he lives,’ he finished. Sophia made a small groaning sound of dismay and shook her head.

‘It’s troubling that she has no concerns toying with these men or the danger she could be in,’ she said. 'Men get jealous.'

‘I believe you should meet her,’ he said. ‘You will not be satisfied with my conclusions unless you can draw your own.’

She looked at him, ‘how do we do that?’

‘Send her an invitation to call,’ he said. ‘you and the Duchess are patrons of Bicetre and she is a great success, and you want to meet her, to congratulate her, you take an interest still…’

‘All right,’ she said, a note of eagerness creeping into her voice. It is what she had wanted – to meet this girl of the same age and orphanage and with her daughter’s name. Was it her? Or was there yet another to be found?

‘We can use the other house,’ he said not looking at her.

‘No!’ she said immediately and emphatically. ‘Absolutely no.’

Lucien stood and stretched. She watched him walk to the window and stare out at the night. She followed him.

‘No Lucien,’ she repeated. Aside from herself, the other house in the Marais was known to only one other person. Neither of them would ever betray Lucien Grimaud.

‘Swear to me,’ she insisted reaching up to hold his face between her hands and looking steadily into his eyes. He nodded and angled his head down to kiss her lightly and then he leaned into her and drew her into his arms, kissing her deeply. He pulled back slightly and gently rubbed his forehead against hers. ‘I swear,’ he whispered.

‘She will come here.’

>>

‘Good heavens,’ breathed Constance D’Artagnan, eyes wide with amazement as she read the message she held, ‘an actress!’ She looked into the eyes of her baby as he laughed and cooed in the strong arms that held him and reached up a tiny hand to pat the lean cheeks shadowed with stubble.

Lucien Grimaud smiled at baby Alexandre and then made a fearsome snarling face complete with a low growl. The baby’s eyes widened, his smile froze and then he erupted in squeals and laughter twisting his little body in delight and waving both hands toward this fearsome face.

‘That’s the way young master,’ rumbled Grimaud. ‘Give ‘em hell.’

‘Really,’ remonstrated Constance, clucking her tongue in disapproval. ‘You are as bad as D’Artagnan.’ She watched Lucien as he watched the baby. It had been several weeks since he had visited the garrison. He could hardly do that with D’Artagnan back, but today the Captain was off with cadets on a training exercise. How had Lucien known that?

‘Much worse,’ replied Lucien Grimaud, ‘of that, I am quite sure.’ Constance shook her head at him and her finger too, ‘you don’t fool me Lucien Grimaud!’

She drew herself upright and fixed him with the disapproving look of a governess unhappy with her miscreant charge.

‘Now sir, you should give their guns back.’ she said sternly.

‘What?!’ exclaimed Grimaud with open-mouth astonishment. ‘Now they’ve lost their guns?’ He shook his head is disbelief.

‘Do I have to do everything in this city? Feed the poor? Save the garrison? Rescue Musketeer wives?’ he grinned at her mischievously. ‘The Queen is back! Surely, she can find her own guns.’ He chuckled at her frown of disapproval, ‘does she want melons too?’

‘Porthos is very upset,’ she told him. ‘I understand he reprimanded Lieutenant Comminges in the strongest language for his poor management and control of the city while the Queen was…’ she hesitated, wondering if the words exile or hiding would be considered treasonous.

‘Buying dresses,’ supplied Lucien helpfully and beamed at her. Constance rolled her eyes. She had heard about the Queen and her ladies and the tables full of silks purchased for their dresses. Everyone in Paris had heard about it.

Lucien tilted his chin to the message Constance held in her hand. ‘Will you go?’ he asked and watched her closely. ‘Of course, I will go,’ she said and opened the message from Sophia to re-read it.

‘An actress,’ she mused. She looked up at him with a quick impish smile, ‘I think I might quite like the theatre. But I am also very sure I wouldn’t want my daughter in it.’ She looked again at the message.

‘Tell Sophia to send for her in that enormous shiny black carriage with the huge crest on the door and the liveried footman. If she’s considering embellishing her story, she might think twice about telling tall tales to nobility. It can get her into serious trouble.’

‘I will tell you this Lucien Grimaud,’ she said firmly, ‘I will know your daughter! She will be smart and clever and have that fancy ring off your finger in a quick second without you knowing it!’

He laughed, ‘then she can have it! If she is my daughter, she can have it and everything else I have as well.

>>

‘Lucien said something similar – but your idea is brilliant,’ said Sophia sitting on the sofa and taking the Duchess of Aiguillon’s hand. ‘However did you think of it?

‘I cannot take all credit,’ said the Duchess in her soft voice. ‘I did talk to M Corneille and it was his suggestion. He knows her!’

‘What…?’ started Sophia. The Duchess interrupted her, ‘I know M Corneille well.’ She was speaking of the playwright, who worked with the theater company owned by M Floridor at the Hotel Bourgogne.

‘M Corneille worked with M Floridor’ said the Duchess. ‘It’s quite a coincidence, but she was M Floridor’s adopted daughter. M Corneille described her as a pretty child, completely taken with the stage. He didn’t remember anything of note about her.’

‘As I am one of his patrons,’ continued the Duchess, ‘he thought we could reasonably ask many questions of her. He would be willing to meet with her if it goes that far.’

Sophia leaned back on the sofa. ‘I cannot foresee how this will turn out, but we have as much opportunity as we hope for to talk with her. Constance will join us.’ She closed her eyes to hold back the tears that were a constant threat to her composure. ‘I only hope it is enough.’

>>

The driver of the grand ducal carriage expertly turned the four matched greys through the ornate gate into the wide drive leading toward the house. On either side were carefully manicured lawns surrounded by trimmed box hedges, dusted with a light snow. In the distance taller hedges framed the private park. Large magnificent chestnut trees extended their leafless branches stark and gray against the pale winter sky. Benches built around their sizeable trunks, provided seating – in warmer months - for picnics or private moments of reading or correspondence. The cooing songs of winter birds could be heard and the sounds of at thriving city muted in the distance.

The carriage slowed as it rolled onto a drive curving around a large fountain and drew up in front of the house. The elaborately carved stone front sparkled in the morning light. Rows of tall windows marked each floor and colonnaded pillars supported a gable roofed balcony from the second floor marking the wide double door entrance below. As the carriage rolled to a stop these doors opened and woman in a severe dark dress stepped out and stood to the side of the door followed by the house steward. The footman riding in the back jumped to the ground and walked to the carriage door, opening it and pulling down the step, holding his hand out to assist the young lady out safely. She walked carefully to the stone stair and looked at the house with wide blue eyes and then back to the impassive face of the house steward.

‘Mademoiselle,’ he intoned and led her up the stair and into a large entry room. To the left was a wide curving staircase with a carved and highly polished balustrade. Large gilt framed portraits hung on the silk covered walls following the path of the staircase, ancestors watching her as impassive as the house steward. The ceiling stretched above her, marble topped rectangular tables set against the wall of the staircase and the wall opposite between tall double doors. A silk upholstered chair with delicate curved white painted legs was set next to each table facing each other across the wide expanse of marbled stone floor.

The man walked before her to one set of double doors and knocked once, opening the door and leading her inside.

The room took her breath away. An ornate carved and gilded coffered ceiling soared above her, large gleaming opulently styled glass chandeliers hanging at intervals. Walls were covered with large tapestries, beautifully colored and detailed, of pastoral and military scenes. More ancestors looked down serenely from portraits hung high on the walls. The carpet was thick, deep blue and intricately patterned. The sofas were covered in silk as were delicately carved chairs. There were small tables with tops of inlaid wood and marble. Silver footed candelabras draped with glass beads and gold and silver chains were set on handsome ebony tables between the tall windows, the silk patterned drapes pulled back with heavy gold braid to let the bright morning sun stream into the room. The fire burned high in a fireplace set within a marbled surround, large irons and decorative screens set before it. She had never seen a more beautiful room.

Two women were sitting on a sofa, a third occupied a chair. They turned to look toward the door as it opened, and they entered.

‘Your Grace,’ the man announced gravely, ‘Mlle du Pouget.’ He stood back to let her pass by him, retreating silently and closing the door. She stepped forward holding head high and looked at three elegantly dressed women sitting silently, hands folded and still in their laps. They looked like a portrait painting of aristocratic ladies.

This might be the performance of her life thought the Duchess de la Croix watching the actress cross the room to sink into a graceful curtsy in front of them. She didn’t dare look at Constance who was undoubtedly wide-eyed at being on the receiving end of a curtsy. She rose from her chair.

‘It is good of you to come to us,’ she said to the young woman. ‘The coach was to your satisfaction? I trust there were no difficulties.’ She was courteous of her guest, holding her hands together in front of her at her waist and smiling gently.

‘Yes, Mada...Your Grace,’ the girl stumbled ever so slightly. She smiled and widened her eyes, looking as she intended – young, an unworldly girl who should be forgiven any unintentional slight of address to nobility. She was after all – an innocent.

Behind her she heard Constance cough lightly and clear her throat. She looked back at the girl and sent her a silent message. Be careful she thought - Constance does not like you already.

She motioned toward the two women, ‘may I present the Duchess of Aiguillon and Madame D’Artagnan,’ and then waved her hand toward the opposite sofa. The woman in the dark dress entered followed by a gloved footman bearing a large tray. Dishes were arranged on a long rectangular darkly marbled table. The footman moved a small table and the two servants left the room.

‘Refreshment?’ she asked the girl. The young woman was looking at the array of cakes displayed on multi-leveled silver servers, the smaller silver plates, forks and sparkling glassware.

‘Allow me,’ said Sophia and she rose to fill a silver plate and a glass and handed both to the actress. To the others she handed full glasses of wine and took one herself. She returned to her chair and took a deep drink of the wine, setting it on the small delicate table the footman had moved to her chair. For a moment, the girl wondered how he had known she would need it.

‘Mlle Pouget, you must wonder why we asked you here,’ she had rehearsed this part with Lucien. Tell her the meeting is about her – her success and the connections you offer her. Remember who you are he said sternly lifting her chin to look into her eyes - you ask the questions – you do not answer them.

‘I thought you must have liked the play,’ the actress answered and took another bite of her cake. Her blue eyes were fixed on the graceful woman in the chair. She didn’t consider the woman beautiful –with her imperfect nose and a mouth that would look better on a man. But she was handsome, and her rich gold streaked dark hair was her best feature she judged with an expert eye. The girl raised a hand to touch her handkerchief to her rosebud mouth catching a glimpse of her reflection in the reflection of the silvered surface of the plate and gave a small inward smile. So, she didn’t see the quick glance of surprise that passed between the two Duchesses.

‘No,’ said Sophia smoothly, ‘sadly, we were not in town to accompany the King and court to the play. But of course, we heard of your great success. I believe you were introduced to the King.’ She sipped again at her wine keeping her eyes on her guest. She did not explain why they would not attend a theatrical without the King’s presence.

‘Yes!’ exclaimed Mlle Pouget, ‘the King and many others from the court.’ She blushed prettily, ducking her head and looking up at them shyly, ‘so many handsome men,’ she said, ‘they were quite…complimentary.’ She smiled again and dropped her eyes demurely. Constance cleared her throat again.

“Mlle,’ the Duchess of Aiguillon’s soft voice guided the young woman’s gaze to her. ‘I am in service to the good Father de Paul, who is dedicated to orphans and foundlings.’ The girl’s face tightened slightly. She glanced quickly at the other two women and then back to the noble woman. ‘I know his name,’ she acknowledged guardedly.

‘I am a patron - indeed we are,’ she swept her hand gracefully to indicate Constance and Sophia, ‘all patrons of the infant care homes of the Daughters of Charity and the orphanages. Including Bicetre,’ she finished. The mademoiselle waited, uncertain of what was to come next. The gentle noble woman smiled and plunged ahead.

‘We are so proud of you,’ she said with a trace of breathlessness – not breathless pride, but breathless anxiety. The good Duchess of Aiguillon was not fully versed in intrigue.

‘We marvel at your extraordinary talent and how you have risen so high.’ The young woman visibly relaxed – now the conversation was veering in a direction she not only liked but understood. She smiled graciously at the praise.

‘I am also a patron of M Corneille,’ the Duchess continued and asked, as a teacher might a student, ‘Perhaps you know the name?’

Mlle de Pouget did indeed know the name, ‘the playwright? He works with M Floridor at the Hotel Bourgogne!’ Now she was leaning slightly forward. The Hotel Bourgogne was the competitor to the theatre in the Marais and far more prestigious.

‘Yes,’ said the Duchess eyes shining at her pupil who so readily led her to her final part in this particular play.  
‘M Corneille is interested in your story. He thinks it might make a fascinating play…or an opera!’ The Duchess finished with an upward flourishing lift to her voice and sat back.

Three women turned to look at Mlle Pouget who had gone very still and then suddenly clapped her hands in delight – startling them.

‘Oh, how delightful,’ cried the young woman. ‘Of course, a play! It would make a marvelous play – so full of drama and heroism,' she clapped her hand dramatically to her chest.

'Does M Corneille want to meet me? To learn more? I could tell him everything.’ Her eyes widened again, ‘what if it turns out I am descended from a long-lost princess!’

‘Are you?’ Constance widened her eyes to match the young actress. Sophia shot a warning glance to not mock the girl. Constance did not meet her glance.

‘Well I could be,’ countered the actress, now touching her hair and fluffing her skirt. ‘Who knows with orphans?’ she said shrugging her shoulders.

‘Tell us more about yourself,’ suggested Sophia quickly before Constance could insert her answer to that question. ‘Where do you come from?’ She got up to refill the mademoiselle’s plate and glass and they all settled into their seats to listen.

Two hours later….

‘Remarkable!’ exclaimed Constance. ‘You charmed and sang your way into the Abbess’s heart and out of the drudgery. It’s not every child who could have accomplished such a feat.’

‘Yes, I sang the hymns at mass’ smiled Mlle Pouget shrugging in agreement. ‘Of course, most of the children at Bicetre were quite ordinary and sinful. I remember two who vexed me something awful. They were quite jealous of me,’ she smiled sweetly with a gentle frown at her painful memories.

Constance cleared her throat again. But Mlle Pouget was not finished.

‘She had black hair and the Abbess said she had a heathen name,’ she curled a long gleaming lock of her fair hair and looked at them from under her long lashes. ‘The Abbess had to punish her often for her wickedness.’

‘Heathen?’ asked Sophia absently. Constance looked at her sharply. Both the Duchess and Sophia had grown quiet over the past hour.

‘Yes, Your Grace,’ said the mademoiselle sitting up straighter as the Duchess turned her attention to her. ‘I don’t recall what it was. The boy was known as Rato.’ She giggled, ‘Rato and Pinchar – rats and birds! They were always in trouble and ran away often. Then, one time they did not return.’

Constance asked, ‘did anyone look for them?’ She glanced again at Sophia who was sitting very still, her eyes fixed on Mlle du Pouget. Constance frowned at her pale face. It was time to draw this meeting to a close.

The actress waved her hand dismissively, ‘oh no! No one missed them.’

‘That sounds dreadful,’ said Sophia distracted by what she knew of the Abbess’ methods for ridding children of the devil’s influence. Poor Rato and Pinchar she thought and hoped against reason they still lived and were safe and the birch whips would never fall on them again.

Mlle du Pouget sighed with forbearance. She had clearly overcome great obstacles at Bicetre. It would make a marvelous play. She beamed with excitement.

‘Oh, good heavens,’ said Constance jumping to her feet. ‘Look at the time!’ She reached for a bell cord hanging along the wall and yanked it – hard. ‘We must not keep you any longer. You must need to rest and get ready for your great performance this evening.’

The house steward entered immediately, and Constance told him the carriage was needed. With the barest hint of movement, the man shifted his eyes to his mistress who gave a slight nod, but it was all the confirmation he needed. He bowed and exited the room.

The actress looked startled at the abrupt notice of departure but got to her feet slowly and curtsied again to the ladies. ‘Yes of course, I do need time to prepare for every performance. Will M Corneille be interested? Perhaps there are other details he would like?’ Perhaps she needed to edit her history to suit M Corneille dramaturgy.

‘Rest assured that we will relate all your interesting details to M Corneille,’ said the Duchess of Aiguillon. ‘He is a very busy man. We must all wait on his pleasure.’

For a moment the young woman looked disappointed. She brightened quickly. ‘Well there may be others who would like my story too,’ she pointed out. ‘I am rather popular now and a play about me could sell some tickets.’

Constance stared at her, ‘no doubt you could certainly sell tickets for what you do.’

>>>

The sound of a carriage driving away faded. The room was silent. The three women sitting in it were silent too. A hidden door on the opposite site of the room opened and closed quietly.

Lucien Grimaud walked across the room and knelt on one knee in front of his wife. They gazed at each other for a long moment.

‘Are you alright?’ he asked softly. She nodded and would have buried her face in his shoulder had not the Duchess been there. It would have embarrassed the older woman. She smiled at him instead and touched his cheek.

‘Not yours!’ declared Constance. ‘She is not yours!’ Sophia shook her head, ‘you didn’t like her. From the beginning you didn’t like her.’

‘Exactly!’ said Constance. ‘And I like all your children. I love all your children – even Samy when he brings his squirmy things indoors.’ She shuddered, and everyone smiled.

‘I know she seems different from the others, but…’

‘Not just different,’ Constance started to argue.

The Duchess intervened, ‘Sophia – are you children alike?’

‘No – of course not,’ answered their mother. ‘One is artistic, and one likes squirmy things,’ she laughed, ‘and one is good with numbers, like her father,’ she glanced at Lucien with a quick affectionate smile, ‘and one just loves to read and daydream and be with her sisters…’

‘In what ways are they similar?’ asked the Duchess gently.

‘Smart!’ Constance answered immediately.

‘Not just intelligent, but quick and curious. They are curious about everything and interested in what’s around them and in people. They asked me hundreds of questions about Musketeers and the garrison, the palace, what food did I like best, could I help them find a river in the atlas their father gave them…did I know what that bird sound was, could I identify plants…endless questions about every conceivable thing. They read books,’ she paused for breath.

‘She may not have had books,’ countered Sophia. Constance walked to Sophia and put her hands to her cheeks, ‘I love you like a sister and I am deeply saddened by the pain you are suffering. I want it to be over for you. But this girl is not your daughter.’

Sophia sank to the chair again. Constance turned to Lucien, ‘at the very least, you can investigate parts of her story. Go the village, work back to the foundling home. The Matron clearly adored her, and others might thought her memorable. There may be notes - somewhere.’ Sophia looked at Lucien and nodded, ‘that seems reasonable.’ Lucien blew out his cheeks at the prospect but nodded in agreement.

‘You do not have to do it,’ said Sophia. I spoke with M Diodati yesterday. He has experienced men who can do it for us.’ She looked up at Lucien, ‘let M Diodati handle it for now.’

‘I didn’t know you have gone to see your lawyer,’ he said. ‘Was it for this reason?’ She shook her head. ‘He had some papers for me to look at and I wanted to get my mother’s pearl box from him.’ She was referring to a pearl inlaid ebony box left to her by her mother.

She looked at the Duchess, ‘I thought we might look at the letters together.’

The older woman was sitting quietly watching Sophia. Her thoughtful contemplation shifted to meet Lucien’s eyes. He was suspended in a long moment as she held his gaze – between what he could not have said. But when she looked away, he could have sworn that what he saw in her eyes were tears.


	51. Winter Night

**Author: Mordaunt**

 

_Give me a look, give me a face  
__That makes simplicity a grace;  
__Robes loosely flowing, hair as free-  
__Such sweet neglect more taketh me  
__Than all the adulteries of art.  
__They strike mine eyes but not my heart_.

_(Ben Johnson 1609, Still to be neat)_

 

He never asks about other men, although he knows she sees many. When he arrives late at night he often notices a black carriage leaving at the other side of the busy street. Other times he notices that she wears expensive jewelry she could never afford. When he misses a visit because of his duties with General du Vallon, she brings up the ghostly images of other men: attentive nameless lovers, who desire her more; a certain powerful lover in particular, who showers her with gifts, and has promised his patronage and a house at the Marais. “I thought you were a prince,” she complains, “you offer me nothing, not even your full attention!” It is not that he does not feel the sting of envy, but it does not linger for long. Despite her grievances, he is the only man who stays the night. Or so she claims.

He knows about one of her callers. She was too excited to keep his name a secret: Lucien Grimaud, the man who rules over Paris. He has visited her in person, she said. He came to see her acting more than once. He wears a seal-ring with a large sapphire stone. He does not approve that she receives other men. “He probably hates you,” she warned with a giggle while trying on a new pearl necklace in the mirror; a gift from a great lord that she had already rejected for his sake, she said. Raoul is not at all convinced that Lucien Grimaud is the powerful lover, who promised her patronage: a man almost three times her age with daughters not much older, who, rumor has it, loves his wife.

“Lucien Grimaud is a dangerous criminal, Cecille,” he observed impassively after her impassioned recitation of a private encounter with the man.  General du Vallon had demanded an inspection of the Arsenal, which was looted by M. Grimaud most likely, and Raoul was in charge of compiling an inventory for his regiment. It was a complete disaster. All this powder and ammunition now in the hands of criminals. The inventory took days. He had to postpone his regular visit to the Marais and she was peeved. “One day, he might even be convicted of treason…” Raoul added. If what she claimed was true, Raoul refused to be envious of the likes of Lucien Grimaud.

Lately she is more capricious than she used to be. M. Corneille will write a play about her life, she declared. She met a Duchess who knows him well, and who has taken special interest in her, being an orphan from Bicêtre and all. “I know someone who was raised there,” Raoul said. “His name is de Thierry…” She shrugged. “Never heard of him. But then, I have tried to forget most of that life…” She lowered her long eye lashes, tears gleaming in her eyes. “I was treated with such cruelty there, whipped and starved. But my spirit would not be subdued.” He was not certain this was true, for on other occasions she reminisced of the loving shelter that Bicêtre has been to her, and of the Abbess who thought her an angel. But when she pretended to weep like that, he felt compelled to protect her, and she adored him for it.

The Comte de Guiche found it all extremely amusing. “She has you wrapped around her little finger, that lovely dirty vixen!” he joked. “There are many at court who envy your good fortune my friend, for you are now a man of a certain reputation. And I took you for a novice! His Majesty absolutely adores you, although I suspect his mother thinks you are a bad influence!”

It is true. Her Majesty’s coldness towards Raoul is obvious. He knows it has nothing to do with his public life, and everything to do with his father’s politics, and his mother disregarding all those letters asking for her services for years. He decided not to reveal anything to his friend, M. de Guiche. It is not that he does not trust him. It is that life at court makes people unpredictable. He smiled, instead, pretending his friend’s assessment was correct. “That is how you conquer the court!” M. de Guiche continued as he poured wine for both of them. "Poor de Renard… He tries so hard, and is completely outshined at every turn!”

Unlike the Comte de Guiche, M. de Rohan was not at all amused. They shared drinks after a long day at the empty Arsenal, both charged by their regiments with the task of assessing the devastation. “You are the talk of Paris these days, Raoul” M. de Rohan remarked. It sounded like admonishment. “Do you disapprove, Jean?” Raoul values M. de Rohan’s good opinion above all his peers. “It is not for me to approve or disapprove,” M. de Rohan retorted. “I am just another Musketeer. It is for you to consider if your current associations are suitable for a man of your name and legacy. They may draw a great deal of attention and favor at court, but to have a reputation at court is most often the opposite of keeping your honor intact.”

“You disapprove then!” Raoul said. “The General certainly disapproves. He does not mince his words either. Captain d’ Artagnan also, although he has been discreet. My father would… ” Raoul cannot even fathom what his father might say about all this. The mere thought is embarrassing.

M. de Rohan set his cup on the table and leaned back in his chair, narrowing his eyes as he inquired: “Do you love her, Raoul? This young woman?”

He never thought about this before. “She is a mystery to me,” he retorted without answering the question. “Capricious, and changeable. I am always uncertain who she will be the next moment. She can be any woman I desire her to be. Then she taunts me, provoking envy…”

“And are you envious?” M. de Rohan inquired in his calm, penetrating voice.

“Perhaps a little, sometimes,” Raoul replied. “I pretend I am. She likes to see me jealous…” He was surprised by his own response. “Is that strange?”

M. de Rohan laughed shaking his head. “No. But it is not love…”

“How do you know this, Jean?” he asked eagerly. “How do you know when you are in love with someone?”

“I have no answer to that, cousin” M. de Rohan sounded somber now. He lowered his eyes, as if Raoul might detect something in his gaze, a feeling he did not want to reveal. “But you will know when it happens…”

They separated soon after that, M. de Rohan returning to the Garrison, and Raoul heading towards the Marais. A thick blanket of snow had already covered the streets. By the time he reached the Marais, heavy silvery flakes whirled in the bitter wind coming from the river, glimmering in the light of an almost full, pale moon. He rode slowly, lowering his hat, and pulling his coat to protect himself from the stinging cold. He longed for the warmth of her embrace. All he could think of was that he was late and that she would not be pleased.

 

*****

“Who goes there?”

“Lieutenant de Rohan, returning from the Arsenal, M. de Marchal.”

“Sign?”

“ _Amiens and Rocroi_!” (1)

“Enter, M. de Rohan,” M. de Marchal says, opening the gate of the Garrison. “Terrible night,” he comments, squinting to protect his eyes from the icy wind, “it will probably get worse.” 

“I thought de Thierry had volunteered again for the night shift,” M. de Rohan says as he descends from his horse, dusting himself to remove the snow clinging to his cloak and hat.

“The Captain changed the shift, Lieutenant.” M. de Marchal says rubbing his gloved hands. “He said that M. de Thierry has done enough night shifts for the entire Garrison for the next couple of months. He ordered M. de Thierry and me to accompany you to the Arsenal tomorrow. He was vexed.”

“We are all vexed,” M. de Rohan responds, “the Arsenal is empty. It is a bad business…” He pats his comrade on the back, as he moves into the stables with his horse. “Keep warm tonight, M. Marchal.”

Across the yard, alone in his quarters, M. de Thierry sits in the deep recess of the windowsill watching the falling snow. He cannot sleep. It is not nightmares this time, it is the memory of a winter night just like this, the night the walls of Bicêtre opened. 

****

They would meet after morning prayer. They kept huddled together at the dark corner of a large empty barn behind the refectory. There were still some bundles of old hay, long forgotten, and they had piled them for warmth in the winter. The air was earthy, musty, and slightly pungent, but it was welcoming. That dark corner of the barn was the safest place to be at Bicêtre.

“Can you teach me how to read?” Rato asked. “Sister Léonie tells me I am too stupid.” He showed her the red marks left on his hands by the sister’s stick.

She picked a piece of hay and wrote his name on the damp soil. “This is you!” she said.

“How did you learn to write?” he replied mesmerized by the shapes on the ground.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “I just did…”

“Can you teach me how to do that too?” he looked up with excitement. “If you teach me how to read and write, I will teach you how to climb, and a card trick I know!” He pulled out a small dirty deck of cards from his pocket. “It’s called Find the Lady!”

“Where did you get these?” she exclaimed in sheer awe. She had heard that cards were the tools of the devil, unclean, and not to be touched.

“Out there, Pinchar!” he winked. “When you learn to climb, that is where we are going.”

It took but a few weeks. She brought him scraps she ripped from old bible books at church. The damp earthy floor of the empty barn filled with letters, then whole words, then entire sentences: “Blessed are the pure in heart…” Rato loved the word “heart.” He would scribble it over and over. “It looks beautiful,” he would say admiring his own writing.  

She climbed slowly at first. Her arms and legs were not strong enough, Rato explained. Soon she could scale the thick wooden beams supporting the roof of the barn as fast as Rato. She was not very good with the card game. Not fast enough hiding the card of the Black Queen in her sleeve. “Don’t worry, Pinchar!” he encouraged her, “it takes time!”

The first time they climbed down the walls of Bicêtre together was right after vespers. They jumped onto the back of an old wagon carrying sacks of flour to a baker at the Rue aux Ours in the city. By the time they finally arrived, there was a pale half-moon in the night sky, and large heavy snowflakes drifted lazily in the mild wind, covering everything in a coat of scintillating silver. It was not cold, or perhaps it was, but she only remembers the freshness of the air and the soft snow under her feet. She was free. They ran kicking the snow: “We are in a cloud, Pinchar!” Rato laughed.

He wanted to show her everything. “Over there, behind the Filles de Dieu, is the Court of Miracles. We will go there! It has a real queen! Her name is Flea. She knows all about card tricks, you will see!” he said in breathless excitement. He grabbed her hand and they ran further into the city. She had never seen a city: tall buildings, with carvings and sculptures in marble and stone, their pointed roofs disappearing in the night sky, blanketed in simmering silver white. She followed Rato as if walking in a dream. “This is what I wanted you to see, Pinchar!” he finally exclaimed. They stood at the bank of the river, its black waters reflecting the pale moon, flowing into a mist of falling snow. She had never seen the river. “That behind us is the Louvre!” he said, and then turning towards the other side, he pointed towards the hazy distance: “Can you see the bridge, Pinchar? The island with the great Cathedral is beyond that… we will go there too! We can go anywhere now!” They walked along the river’s edge for a while, the silence of the falling snow suddenly disturbed by a low roaring noise from somewhere in the city. It sounded like a distant thunderstorm. “Another riot!” Rato exclaimed. “Do you want to see it?” “Yes,” she nodded. She had no idea what a riot was.

He led her back into the city, threading through meandering narrow streets. They found themselves at the corner of a large square. Thinking back years later, she realizes they were at Les Halles, but on that first night out of Bicêtre, it felt vast, ominous and exiting at the same time. She had never seen a crowd. “Let’s find out what is happening!” Rato grabbed her hand and pushed his way into the square’s rowdy center.

There was a makeshift scaffold, and people standing on it. A woman was speaking. They could not hear her from where they stood but the people gathered seemed to agree with what she was saying. She was beautiful, Pinchar thought, dark skinned with high cheekbones, and the most luscious dark curls framing her coal black eyes. “That is Sylvie Bodair!” Rato whispered. “Sylvie speaks for the people!” She wondered what that means, to speak for the people, but Pinchar had little time to ponder on it. There were screams from somewhere, and the crowd started to push and shove in panic.

“Come, Pinchar!” Rato yelled, “the Red Guards are here, run!” They crouched and stooped, slipping around people, dodging knees and elbows. “Run Pinchar!” There were times she thought she had lost him as she pushed against wave after wave of clustering bodies. She found herself shoved against a cold stone wall. “Are you hurt?” she heard Rato’s breathless voice next to her under the sounds of galloping horses, and the screams of the crowd. She was not hurt, not even scared.

“We must get out of here,” he said. “There is a way if we keep close to this wall…” Pistols were being fired now somewhere in the crowd, and voices yelled: “Musketeers are here!” They both crouched against the wall, waiting. That is when she first saw them: Musketeers. She had heard about them of course, but had never thought they were real until that moment. She still remembers them, riding in formation, led by four who seemed to be the ones giving orders. They looked taller than most people, on their black horses. One of them was dark skinned like the woman on the scaffold, the one who spoke for the people. “That is Porthos!” Rato whispered. “They say he has the strength of a dozen men. The one next to him is Aramis,” he continued, “best sharpshooter in France!” She did not know what that meant but felt too embarrassed to ask. “And the one without a hat is called d’ Artagnan. He is a Gascon! They say he killed the terrible Rochefort…” She had heard the story of the monstrous traitor, who almost murdered the Queen of France. She had imagined d’ Artagnan tall and fearsome like a giant, but this Musketeer looked young and affable. Even at a moment as perilous as this, there was kindness in his eyes. “That is their Captain!” Rato said pointing to the one riding ahead. “That is Athos.” She could not see him clearly, his face shadowed by his large feathered hat. But he looked severe and unflappable, exactly as she had imagined Musketeers to be. That is the only image she has of him still: the man she is convinced is her father.

They kept returning to the city after that first winter night when the walls of Bicêtre opened. By the time she snuck with Rato into Flea’s tavern at the Court of Miracles she could hide the card with the Black Queen safely into her sleeve without anyone noticing. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Amiens and Rocroi: the Battle of Rocroi on 19 May 1643 resulted in the victory of the French army against Spain, under the Duc d'Enghien (i.e., Louis de Bourbon or Louis II, Prince of Condé, or Grand Condé. In this story also: Monsieur le Prince). Before this battle, M. le Prince was commander of an army in Amiens, and he was called to stop the Spanish incursion.


	52. A Savage in Limbo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A famous actress, beautiful and talented - has Lucien found his missing daughter or....? A shocking allegation about him comes to his attention. And, while the people may love him, his reckless disregard for royal favor is creating serious trouble for him. Where are the guns and....how did he steal cannon?

The dining room could seat 50 although he could not remember the last time there had been that many seated at this table. The room had large windows on one side looking out onto the park. The only candles lit were on the footed candelabras illuminating one end of the highly polished table. The rest of the long table and the room faded into shadow beyond where they were sitting. The fire made cheery sounds of wood crackling and shifting in the fireplace. It was the only sound in the room.

At the head of the long dining table, Lucien bit into the last of his fish stew and drank from his wine glass. He looked at the woman sitting to his right, watching her hand absently move the food around her plate in a repeated circular pattern. He leaned back in his chair and tossed back the rest of his wine and reached for the decanter to refill his glass. He glanced over his shoulder tilting his head to the door to dismiss the footman. He looked toward Yusuf. The faithful servant looked back at him and then to his mistress. He walked slowly toward the door, hesitated once more and then left the room closing the door silently behind him.

They were alone, and he studied her. Today he had noticed her dress hanging loosely, and for days her face appeared pale and bruised and there were dark circles under her eyes. She hadn’t slept well since the meeting with the girl. Old nightmares had returned jerking her ruthlessly from peaceful slumber. He held her murmuring softly as she shook and cried from images of terrifying violence from years long past. Or he woke in the night and she was not next to him having slipped from their bed to pace the drawing room or library. More alarming to him, he had found her weeping softly in the silent and empty nursery its unused furnishings covered with white cloths.

He was restless with anxiety – and fury. He felt her slipping away from him, as lost in the past as he was helpless to keep her with him in the present. He had come to rue the day they had found the empty coffin in the graveyard. It had led them here – and to a deceitful harpy who had opened a divide between them. He was sure this girl would destroy the lives of their children and the life they had built together. She may not be their missing daughter. M Diodati’s men had not yet reported in to him. But the pale woman next to him, the woman he loved and could not reach, was convinced otherwise.

He took a deep breath and spoke in a neutral tone, ‘is the food not to your liking? I’m sure cook would prepare something else for you.’ He drummed his fingers on the table top willing her to look at him.

She glanced up startled as though surprised to find him at the table with her. Her brilliant blue eyes seemed as muted as her cheeks - now faded to a colorless pallor. She shook her head and pushed back from the table. He was on his feet.

‘We must talk Sophia,’ he said, putting his hand to her chair in a preventive motion. She frowned at him.

‘I know your mind,’ she said, ‘I see no point in going over it again.’ She shoved the chair back against his restraining hand and stood up, turning to the door. He followed her, taking her arm firmly. He yanked open the door and led her along the gallery to the drawing room, pulling her through the doors and to the sofa where he sat her down.

‘How dare you drag me through the house,’ she said angrily trying to rise. He put his hands on her shoulders, standing over her, ‘you are going home!’ his voice peremptory. He pulled his hands away and squeezed them tight, keeping a firm grip on his rising temper.

‘What are you talking about?’ she cried. ‘I am not going anywhere. I must stay...’

‘No,’ he said firmly, ‘you are losing yourself over this girl. You do not eat, or sleep and this constant weeping…’

‘Well I am so sorry to be an inconvenience to your peace of mind my lord,’ she said sarcastically.

‘Stop that,’ he commanded. ‘You waste yourself on this girl. She is a liar and debauched!’

‘No!’ she shouted at him standing and pushing against him.

He stood firm, ‘you know she has claimed me as one of her lovers!’ He stalked to the fireplace and stood stiffly, ‘that I have promised her a house and gifts of jewels!’ He whirled to face her, ‘the lying vixen! I intend to confront her with her lies!’

‘No,’ cried Sophia again, ‘please Lucien – do not. She is only young and foolish. There are many stories about you – no one listens to them.’

‘I listen to this one!’ he was enraged. ‘It dishonors you. It dishonors me!'

He pointed his finger at her and said emphatically, 'I do not keep mistresses Sophia – I do not lie with whores and I do not importune a girl of her years - it disgusts me!’ he spat out the words with contempt.

‘She doesn’t know…’ she tried to reason with him, but he stomped away from her, ‘I will not accept it!’ His anger boiled over, ‘she will retract her lies immediately!’

She walked unsteadily to him and put her hands on his chest to placate him. ‘Lucien – please. Do not do this. She is only ignorant of the truth…’

‘What truth!’ he said angrily. ‘We do not know she is ours. We may never know for certain, but regardless, I want her far away from our children, our lives…look at you,’ he said gesturing furiously at her, ‘she is destroying you!’

‘I have instructed your maid to pack for you. You are returning to Royamount.’ It was a command.

‘No,’ she said weakly into the force of his fury. She could not leave Paris. The girl might need her and there were rumors circulating about the threat of him being arrested. She was needed here.

‘I insist. It will restore you to be away from this vile city and home in the country.’

‘You cannot…’ she protested but he stopped her, gripping her chin and pulling her face up to look into his dark angry eyes.

‘You will do as I say,’ he ordered. ‘I am master of this family and I will do what is best for you.’

He released her and stalked to the door, ‘you will go to Royamount Sophia. I will put you in the carriage and lock the door myself.’

‘Go and finish packing. You leave at dawn.’ The doors slammed behind him as he left the house.

>>  
Tall multistoried buildings hovered dangerously over the dark narrow rutted street. Snow fell silently through the air, darkening instantly into a slushy mixture of snow and foul-smelling muck in the roadway. He turned into a two storied wood and stone building, yellow light streaming out into the night and pushed hard against the door.

Friquet looked up from sweeping the floor as Lucien Grimaud stomped down the stairs and moved through the tables. A man stood and bumped into him, muttering in complaint, ‘hey!’ Lucien turned his hooded face toward the man, who gaped and sucked in his breath and stepped back raising his hands apologetically, ‘beg pardon Monsieur,’ and scurried past Lucien and out the door. Friquet walked quickly to the serving table and handed the girl wine and a glass.

She walked to his table and set it in front of him, ‘did you want food sir?’ He didn’t look at her, ‘no,’ he grumbled. He poured out wine into the glass and drank it down, refilled the glass and drank that too.

Flea shuffled the cards quietly and watched Lucien. She knew Lucien was not getting drunk. When he was angry, Lucien did not get drunk. And tonight, his anger was palpable. She handed the cards to the man sitting next to her and stood up.

She got to the table as he was picking up the flask to refill his glass. Her hand topped his and stopped him. He looked up irritably and glowered at her, but pulled his hand away and leaned back folding his arms over his chest with an irritable snort. She sat and poured half a glass pushing it toward him. He glared at her again and drained the glass setting it back on the table with a distinct thump.

‘Well, I would ask what’s wrong,’ she canted her head thoughtfully, ‘but there are so many choices with you!’

‘I am glad I amuse you,’ he said sourly. ‘Stop moping,’ she ordered, ‘if you are annoyed, over half is your fault anyway.’

He frowned at her, ‘what are you…’ he started to object but she cut him short.

‘The grain was one thing – you might infuriate the Queen, but feeding starving people made you a hero. She could hardly arrest you for treason.’ He rolled his eyes at her.

‘If you break into that stupid song…’ he started to say.

‘You provoked them!’ she shook her finger at him, ‘really Lucien - looting the armory!’ she scolded as though he had filched the pies for supper.

‘It was unguarded and the door wide open,’ he protested as though it wasn’t his fault. 'What did they expect? I practically had to do it!’

‘What were you thinking? ‘You were supposed to have agreed to a truce!’

‘Do you really believe the Queen will honor a truce with me?’ he rolled her eyes toward her skeptically. ‘I didn’t see a clause about armories…’ he mumbled petulantly as he drank down his wine, his eyes glittering in amusement at her over the rim of the glass.

‘Besides –I had expenses,’ he spread his hands expansively, ‘it’s the devil’s own problem feeding those gigantic men!’

She clucked her tongue at him, ‘don’t be ridiculous!’ He looked down but could not suppress his grin.

‘See!’ she pursed her lips and shook her head at him. ‘Scoundrel! you enjoyed it,’ she rebuked him.

‘The men were getting bored – that never ends well.’

‘You have most of their gun powder. It is not legal, and it makes them nervous,’ she said. ‘They will arrest you Lucien.’

‘The gunpowder may be the only thing that keeps me from being arrested,’ he said wryly.

‘Besides,’ he cautioned, ‘a responsible citizen cannot leave powder lying around an unsecured armory for just anyone to pick up.’

‘You should have left some of the weaponry. You stole cannon too!’ she was exasperated but chuckled, ‘however did you get it out?’

‘Hitched Gunther to it,’ joked Lucien.

She shook her head at him, trying to stifle her laughter, ‘you knew Porthos would be furious! You waved a red flag into the face of a bull!’

‘I think Porthos should consider hiring my men.’ Flea smiled and said, ‘it’s not a joke Lucien – they will arrest you if they can.’ Lucien shrugged and looked away from her.

She sighed heavily, ‘you are like a naughty boy sometimes. This is reckless. The time for reckless is over for you!’ She shook her finger in his face. you have children to consider.’ He nodded his head side to side bored with her chastising.

'I don’t know how Sophia puts up with you.’

At the mention of his wife’s name, Lucien’s mouth tightened. Ah, thought Flea – that is the source of his trouble tonight. And she knew the real problem traced back to the girl they had found in the Marais theatre – who had come from Bicetre orphanage. It was unlikely they would ever know for certain, if this girl was their daughter. They waited for information about her from the village and region she claimed as her home.

‘Is Sophia all right?’ asked Flea quietly. She poured wine for them both. He shrugged again and looked away from her.

‘She takes it hard – the loss, this girl and her…’ his mind shouted – lies! He glanced at Flea, ‘she wants it to be true.’

‘And you?’ He shook his head, ‘whether she is or is not – I cannot accept her into my family.’ He made a fist and thumped it against the table. ‘You know what she says about me.’ His voice tightened in anger at the gossip the girl had created.

‘Yes,’ said Flea. ‘She is very young Lucien and completely foolish. She does not know how a man might react to her stories.’

‘Stories!’ snorted Lucien, his eyes flashing in indignation, ‘lies! Complete lies!'

‘The harpy would ruin our daughters and she is ruining Sophia,’ he said angrily. He saw her pale face and clenched his fist.

‘The lawyer’s men may find something yet,’ said Flea placing a placating hand on his arm.

‘It wouldn’t matter,’ he said, ‘how can we tell her who we might be to her. She would use any information to self-serving intent – of that I am sure.’

He sighed heavily, ‘Besides, I do not have time to wait any longer,’ he said. ‘Sophia drifts in this limbo – we both do. It cannot go on any longer,’ he looked at Flea, ‘I’m sending her tomorrow to Royamount. She needs our daughters and son to set her mind to rights again.’

‘You told me your daughter Suzanne is expected to come to Paris soon.’ He nodded, ‘the Duchess of Aiguillon is a patron of the Academie and has arranged a tour.’

‘Then go home with Sophia,’ encouraged Flea. ‘You can all return later, with your daughter. Let tempers here against you cool. You may be at more risk than you know.'

‘I know the risks well enough,’ he said tersely. ‘I cannot leave now.’

‘Go home Lucien,’ said Flea softly. She gripped his arm, ‘please my dearest friend – go with her. She needs you and you would do well to leave Paris.’

>>  
He closed the door softly after him and let the whining and wriggling mastiffs lick his fingers and scratched them behind the ears.

‘All quiet sir,’ said the burly footman, replacing the long gun in its position next to him. ‘Her Grace is in the library sir.’

Lucien frowned – she should be in bed. He took the stairs two at a time and walked down the gallery to the heavy double oak doors. He pushed them open and crossed the floor, the thick carpet muting his booted step.

She was stretched out on the sofa in front of the fireplace, her head resting on several pillows, an open book on her chest. She turned her head at his approach and pulled herself into a sitting position and waited for him.

He sank to one knee in front of her and reached to caress her face. She looked tired, but her blue eyes were warm with tenderness. She ran her fingers through his long hair, and he put his arms around her waist and laid his head in her lap. She stroked his hair back from his face.

‘Come back to me Sophia,’ he murmured. She smiled down at him. ‘I have never left you,’ she admonished gently. ‘But I have let myself become too preoccupied with what I cannot change or undo,’ she stroked his forehead slowly. ‘I have been inattentive to you. And for that, I am sorry.’

‘What do we do?’ she whispered. He closed his eyes and tightened his arms around her.

‘She has claimed me as a lover. I will not accept her into our family,’ he said firmly. ‘But, if the lawyer’s agent finds reasonable proof, I will provide for her,’ he said.

‘It ends there.’

>>  
Birds – even in winter there were birds. Cooing and other songs of morning greeting the dawn. There was a layer of patterned frost on the window pane. She was soft and warm against him, his arms around her sleeping form. He didn’t want to move. The house and the park were quiet – at this hour all activity would be in the kitchens as the cooks and kitchen help started to prepare breakfast, the maids assembling their polishes and cloths, brooms and mops, water heating on the big stoves for laundry, workmen arriving and men coming in for their early morning meal before going on to the stables or into the gardens and park.

So when he heard the drumbeat of horses’ hooves approaching the house, he knew it was for no trivial matter. Gently he dislodged his arm from under her head and covered her with the blanket. Quickly he swung his feet to the floor and went into the small adjacent room to dress quickly and pull on his boots. He left the bedchamber, running down the stairs and was coming into the entry hall as Friquet burst through the front door evading the grasp of a flustered house steward, agitated at this early morning arrival of a street urchin.

‘Sir,’ the boy gasped – out of breath with distress and shock, his wild ride, and the dash up the stair. Something had happened.

‘Sir,’ Friquet said again, his face crumbling, ‘they found her sir.’ Lucien was frowning at him confused as to whom he was referring. ‘Who…’ he started to ask.

‘They found Mlle Pouget!’ blurted out the boy. ‘At the river sir,’ his voice was breaking with sobs, ‘she’s dead sir!’

‘She has been murdered!’


	53. Ice Maiden

**Author: Mordaunt**

_Little think’st thou, poor flower,_  
_Whom I have watched six or seven days,_  
_And seen thy birth, and seen what every hour_  
_Gave to thy growth, thee to this height to raise,_  
_And now dost laugh and triumph on this bough,_  
_Little think’st thou_  
_That it wll freeze anon, and that I shall_  
_Tomorrow find thee fall’n, or not at all._

_(John Donne, 1633, The Blossom)_

 

 

 

> _………The voices sound distant, distorted. He feels as if he is sinking deeper and deeper into black murky waters._
> 
> _“Vicomte!”_
> 
> _“Bragelonne!!”_
> 
> _“Raoul!”_
> 
> _From those dark depths he struggles to reach the surface but his limbs are numb and heavy, as if he is anchored to some invisible weight. He tries to breathe but cannot… I am drowning, he thinks, as he sinks deeper into the abyss…......._

 

**** 

By the next morning, the frozen wind from the river had turned the night snow into muddy, slippery, ice. M. Marchal, M. de Rohan, and M. de Thierry kept their horses to a slow pace riding from the Garrison to the Arsenal by way of the Quay des Augustins, crossing the Pont Neuf. They rode silently, wrapped in their cloaks, their hats pulled to their eyes to protect them from the frigid air. The road usually bustling with people this early in the morning, was empty. They thought nothing of it, and just pressed on, eager to find themselves sheltered from the cold, even if it was within the empty stone walls of the Arsenal. 

“Hey! Musketeers!” a voice broke the silence. Someone was running towards them from beyond the Port de la Tournelle. De Thierry recognized him immediately: Friquet!

“Monsieur Musketeer!” Friquet exclaimed as he approached and recognized M. de Thierry. “You must come immediately to the wharf!” He tried to catch his breath against the freezing wind. “Something is very wrong, Monsieur!”

“Ride with me, Friquet!” de Thierry said, extending his hand, and lifting the boy onto his saddle. “Tell us exactly where to go.” They put their horses to a trot, following Friquet’s directions, although it was not difficult to determine where they had to go, for a small crowd was gathered close to the Port de la Tournelle.

De Rohan was first to arrive followed by M. Marchal. “Stand back!” he called out to the onlookers, dismounting from his horse. The crowd shifted a little, opening a path for the two Musketeers to pass, but remained otherwise undeterred. De Thierry let Friquet jump off the saddle, and dismounted too, pushing his way through the crowd behind the boy. 

She was laid at the river bank as if she were sleeping: a frozen maiden, her golden hair spread like precious silk on the icy shore, drenched in mud and silt from the river, her hands crossed on her chest. She wore velvet and silk, and an expensive pearl necklace around her long white neck. De Rohan knelt by the body unable to comprehend exactly what he was looking at. She appeared peaceful, her perfect features calm, her long eyelashes covering her soft unblemished cheeks. But for the paleness of her skin, and the slight blue tint on her lips, she looked as if she would open her eyes at any moment. M. Marchal searched for a pulse first on her wrist and then on the side of her neck, but there was nothing. Just the cold feel of death. It was then that he noticed bruising around her neck, that was carefully concealed by the necklace. He pointed it out to M. de Rohan. “This is strange,” he remarked.

“Who found her?” M. de Rohan inquired, standing up, and addressing the crowd. An elderly man cowered to the front, removing his hat. “I did, your lordship. I came early to make sure my boat had not keeled over with all the ice last night. It is very old, you see. It is that one, over there.” He pointed towards a small barge by the docks. “The young lady was here just as you see her. I thought she had fainted at first…” his voice trembled. “Such a pretty young girl…” he said. There were tears in his eyes. “To die alone, on a dark freezing night... I have a grand-daughter her age, your lordship…” De Rohan was touched. “Don’t worry, friend,” he said. “I understand. Did you move her at all?”

“No! No! Your lordship! Not at all…” the old man exclaimed. “I just walked up to her, and then called some neighbors. She is just as I found her!”

“Anyone knows who she is?” de Rohan inquired.

“Yes, Monsieur Musketeer! She is Mademoiselle du Pouget, the actress from the Marais!” Friquet said approaching M. de Rohan. M. de Thierry, walking right behind him, stood aghast at the sight of the dead young woman in the river. She looked exactly like a girl he used to know from a life he thought he had left behind: a girl with the same silk golden hair, a girl who could sing like the angels, a girl from Bicêtre, whose name he could never forget no matter how much he had tried: Cecille…

*****

They lifted her carefully onto a creaking old wagon, and covered her with an old torn sail made of canvas. “We ride back with her to the Marais,” M. de Rohan ordered, and moving closer to his two comrades, he whispered “we must find de Bragelonne!” 

The entire neighborhood around the theater had learned the news by the time they arrived at the Marais. A disorderly crowd had gathered in the street: friends, admirers, and curious onlookers, some gaping, others weeping for such meaningless loss of young life. M. Robin, the director, collapsed on the floor in anguish, while Madame Petit wept. “My sweet little angel,” she repeated kissing the girl’s hands, “my sweet little angel, to die like this.”

“Someone should let M. Floridor and his wife know,” M. Filandre observed. “They are the closest she has to parents.” But for wiping a tear, M. Marchal noticed, the famous actor appeared to be the least affected among her friends in the troupe. “Did the young lady live here?” M. Marchal inquired. He was good at this sort of thing: direct, practical, and methodical. Madame Petit nodded, between her sobs, unable to speak.

“Show us!” M. de Rohan demanded. He half expected to find Raoul in Mademoiselle du Pouget’s room, but no one was there. The bed was unmade. It was covered with dresses that had been laid out, having been removed from an old chipped paneled chest, which stood open at the foot of the bed, as if the occupant of the room was deciding what to wear before she left. Scarfs and cloaks were thrown all around, on the mismatched chairs and the sofa, and shoes were spread everywhere over the flimsy thin rug on the floor.

It was impossible not to notice it, for it stood in stark contrast to every other object in the room: an expensive mother-of-pearl encrusted jewelry box, among the small cheap perfume bottles covering the top of a dainty table that was set in front of an old, cracked vanity mirror. M. Marchal walked up to that table, and opened the box carefully with his gloved hand. It was empty. “Do you know what was in this?” he asked Madame Petit, who was crouching by the doorway weeping silently. 

“She had so many admirers, Monsieur,” the woman sniffled. “It was a gift. I do not know what was in it, but she cherished it. She used to say this was from the man who promised her patronage. Perhaps it is the pearl necklace my poor lamb wears still…”

M. de Thierry walked around the room observing every detail. He never expected to encounter this part of his old life again. Certainly not in this manner. Definitely not so intimately. “Do you know who that man was, Madame? The man who promised Mademoiselle du Pouget his patronage?” he inquired.

“Oh, my sweet angel was very discreet,” she replied. “I would not know, Monsieur. But then…”

“Then what?” M. de Thierry said, standing still.  

“I do not pry, Monsieur, please understand. I am not a gossip. But there was a black carriage that often stopped across the street late in the night. And Artus and Gilles, our stage hands, swear they saw none other than M. Grimaud walking into her room almost a fortnight ago…”

“M. Grimaud? _The_ M. Grimaud?” M. de Rohan interjected, aghast.

“Yes, Monsieur, you can ask them yourselves. He came to the play also. I saw him with my own eyes. Perhaps that young officer she preferred to be with, got jealous. He was here late last night. There was shouting. We all heard it. Perhaps he killed her because he was jealous of M. Grimaud!”

“We must find de Bragelonne right now!” M. de Rohan exclaimed.

********

“Vicomte, do you hear us?”

“Bragelonne, open your eyes!”

“Raoul, wake up!”

Once again, he tries to move against the current that pulls him into the darkness. “ _Open your eyes_ ” a distant voice demands, and he feels something cold and wet against his face, as if he is emerging from water. He tries to breathe…

“Raoul!” The voice is familiar. 

“Some more water, Lieutenant?” 

“No, I think he is finally coming around, M. Marchal.”

Marchal? Isn’t he a Musketeer? Raoul opens his eyes but all he can see is blinding light. He feels a sharp piercing pain through his eyes, and falls back against pillows. Is he in a bed?

“Close the curtains de Thierry!” the familiar voice demands. Jean’s voice. “Raoul,” de Rohan says, “it’s me… it’s us. Are you injured?”

“Am I injured?” He does not remember. He tries to open his eyes again. In the blinding haze he begins to detect colors, shapes, and movement: he is in his room, Jean is seated at the side of his bed, and M. Marchal stands behind him, while M. de Thierry leans against the open door, a few paces away. What are they doing here?

“Raoul, are you injured?” de Rohan insists.

“No, I don’t think so,” he replies astonished that his voice is so feeble, and his mind so numb. He feels dizzy and nauseated.

“Are you drunk?” M. de Thierry interjects in his harsh, unforgiving tone.

“I don’t think so,” he mumbles. Could he be? He has never been drunk before. Did it have to be de Thierry coming into his room, especially if he is indeed drunk for the first time?

“Vicomte,” M. Marchal inquires in his direct, practical tone, “what is the last thing you remember?”

Raoul takes a deep breath, the numbness in his mind slowly easing. He tries to sit up but he finds that his arms shake, and his head spins. He closes his eyes. “I remember sharing a glass of wine with Jean.” He speaks with difficulty. “I remember riding in the snow…”

“And then?” M. de Thierry sounds impatient.  

Raoul struggles to recall. “Then… nothing…”

“How can that be?” M. de Thierry is exasperated. “What do you mean, nothing?”

“He means he does not remember!” M. de Rohan interjects. He speaks quietly, ignoring M. de Thierry: “Raoul, let’s follow all you did last night. We were at the Arsenal together. Then we had a glass of wine, and spoke about Mademoiselle du Pouget. You were on your way to meet her. Do you recall all that?”

“Yes, I do.” Raoul retorts. “I was going to meet her at the Marais…” He pauses.  “If so, what am I doing here? Where is she?” 

“That is what we are trying to find out,” M. de Thierry scoffs.

“Did something happen to her?”

“She was found murdered by the river, this morning,” M. de Thierry replies. 

****

“Lieutenant, why me?” M. de Thierry is not at all pleased.

“Because you need to correct your attitude and your manners!” M. de Rohan declares in a tone that leaves no room for debate.  He moves closer to Raoul’s bed, where M. Marchal is helping Raoul stand. He staggers as if he is about to faint, but at least he is more coherent, and alert than when they first discovered him. “This is extremely serious, Messieurs, and we must act right away. M. Marchal,” M. de Rohan orders, “you need to ride to the Arsenal and take charge of the inventory for me. That cannot wait. If General du Vallon’s men are there, tell them that the Vicomte de Bragelonne is indisposed today, and offer to assist them in his place. I fear, most of the hard work today falls upon you, M. Marchal…”

The young Musketeer bows a slight smile on his lips: “Do not worry, Lieutenant. I will do as you say!”

“I must ride to the Garrison and tell the Captain immediately.  We need his support and advise.” Raoul is about to object, so M. de Rohan adds: “I must tell him, Raoul. You need his help now more than ever before.” He notices M. de Thierry, standing at the doorway, arms crossed, sulking. “De Thierry, you will remain here, with the Vicomte and make sure he gets better. We heard that Lucien Grimaud could be involved, so we must be cautious. I would not be surprised if he has people watching this house already. Raoul must get to the Garrison as soon as he can stand on his feet. If it is still daylight and the streets are still busy get him onto a horse. If it is night, you two must walk to the Garrison, I fear. Riders are easier to follow on an empty street. Make yourselves as inconspicuous as possible. Be armed. Take the route by the river.”

De Thierry nods in agreement, despite his obvious displeasure. Raoul is not at all appeased. De Thierry wanted to kill him not so long ago; he probably still does.  And what was that about Lucien Grimaud? He wishes he could think clearly…

****

He wakes up some hours later. The stabbing pain in his head has turned into a dull lingering headache. But his vision is no longer blurred. He notices the pale rose light of the setting sun peaking gently through the drawn curtains. It must be early evening. At the side of the bed de Thierry reads a book leaning back in a chair, his legs raised, booted feet resting on a pretty carved table, that was never meant to be used as a footstool. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Bragelonne…” he remarks without looking up from the page he is reading.

Raoul raises himself carefully. He is determined not to be lured by de Thierry’s provocations. Besides he feels exhausted. “You made yourself comfortable, I see…” he observes.

“It’s a good book,” de Thierry retorts, showing him the spine. It is the ‘Song of Roland.’

“Shouldn’t it be your favorite book?” Raoul remarks. “I heard you picked your name from a character in it…”

“Is that what they say?” 

“Yes, but I doubt it…” Raoul finds it impossible to remain unaffected by de Thierry’s irksome tone. Besides, the headache puts him in a really bad mood. “You have nothing in common with Thierry in the poem. He is too well-spoken and wise…”

“While I am not…?”

“Yes. You are neither well-spoken nor wise. Clever yes. I will give you that…” Raoul discovers that while in this foul mood, he can provoke as easily as de Thierry, perhaps more. “You call yourself “de” Thierry. That is a town at Aisne, is it not? Where the ancient La Fére estate used to be?”

“You are very perceptive,” de Thierry retorts. He sounds surprised someone discovered this detail about his name. 

“I like maps,” Raoul shrugs. “Besides, the reference is pretty obvious...” 

“You’d think then that your father would notice…” de Thierry scoffs.

We finally come to it, Raoul thinks. “My father would notice!” he says. “My father would want to know you. He is a kind man. Noble and courageous. He would not abandon his own child...” 

“Depends on the child. But you are loyal to your father, I will give you that. It seems to me you could prove your loyalty better if you would accept my challenge. It still stands by the way…”

“I have no intention of fighting you, de Thierry. I will not give credence to any of your claims.”

“We are, all of us, so entirely unworthy of your attention…” de Thierry sounds calm, but the fire and anger in his eyes are hard to miss. “Well,” he says, removing his legs from the table, and regaining his composure and mocking tone, “I may not get to kill you perhaps but someone else will. Perhaps it will be Lucien Grimaud. Word is he thinks you murdered his lover…”

“Cecille is dead then…” Raoul says. He still wonders if he has dreamed it all.   

“Do you think you dreamed it all? You did not. It is all true. We found her at the wharf by the Port de la Tournelle early this morning…”

“What was she doing there?”

“We were hoping you might be able to tell us. You really don’t remember anything, do you?” de Thierry’s tone is serious now, no longer curt and blunt. No longer trying to offend.

“I remember nothing about last night. Only riding in the snow towards the Marais… I do not even know how I got back here, in my apartments.”

“Your servants told M. Marchal you returned after midnight. They heard you stumbling up the stairs. Maybe you were drunk?”

 Raoul can no longer suppress his anger: “Whatever you may think of me, I don’t get drunk, de Thierry…”

The young Musketeer lowers his gaze. “I know,” he says quietly. “I misspoke. I apologize. But you understand how it all looks, de Bragelonne? Not very good for you. There are people at the Marais, who claim that you were in her room last night. That there was a fight of some kind. Then you go missing until after midnight when you finally return to your own rooms. Your servants’ account makes you sound drunk when you returned. We find her dead at the bank of the Seine, murdered during the time you were missing. We find you unconscious a few hours later. You say you never get drunk. De Rohan believes you, and I will take his word over anyone else’s. Truth is, you did not look drunk to me when we found you. Whatever it was that happened to you, that is not what drunk looks like. But do you think a judge would be that discriminating?”

De Thierry has a way of clarifying things, Raoul realizes. His assessment is blunt but correct. It does not look good for him at all. He rakes his fingers through his hair trying to concentrate on his plight but all he can think of is Cecille. The warmth of her touch, the sweetness of her lips, the sparkle in her eyes, the way she made him desire her even when she lied to him. How could this be? Why was he not there to prevent it? “How did she die?” he asks.

De Thierry can hear it all in Raoul’s voice: the shock of loss, the sadness, the guilt. “Did you love her?” he wants to ask, but the question sounds too brash and forward now. Instead, he tells Raoul what he witnessed at the side of the river: about the frozen maiden with her hands crossed on her chest, wearing a pearl necklace that concealed bruises around her neck. “Do you think she was strangled?” Raoul interjects. “I am not sure, Bragelonne,” he retorts. “She looked too peaceful. A person who is being strangled fights back…  I am not as good as M. Marchal in figuring out such things. He will be able to help more than I can.”

“And how does Lucien Grimaud fit in?”

“Ah, that was an interesting twist. Did you know he was another lover? Apparently, he went to her performances and visited her in her room at the Marais…”

“Cecille boasted that he showed interest in her. That he visited her. I never believed her. Cecille made up all sorts of stories to make me jealous when she thought I did not pay her enough attention…”

De Thierry can imagine Cecille doing that. She would like to be the center of attention. At Bicêtre she always was. That is how she was raised. He reveals none of that to Raoul. “Were you jealous?” he asks instead.

“No. Definitely not of Lucien Grimaud, if that was even true…”

“One of the other actresses noticed a black carriage waiting outside the theater often. Perhaps it was him. The same man who offered her patronage…”

“I have seen that carriage too,” Raoul affirms. “I never thought much of it. She had many callers, de Thierry… Many potential patrons…”

“And you did not mind that?” de Thierry wants to ask but again, he thinks it sounds more like prying than investigating. “The woman at the theater said that Lucien Grimaud might have given her the pearl necklace, the one she was wearing when she was found…”

Raoul thinks for a moment, remembering the night Cecille stood before her mirror boasting about her latest trophy. “I know that necklace,” he says. “It was a gift from someone else. Someone she claimed she had rejected because of me. If it were a gift from Lucien Grimaud why would she not say so? She used his name to spite me all the time. She boasted about him in the open…”

“You do not sound convinced about Lucien Grimaud…”

“Are you? Of all you know about this man, of all we understand of this man, does he sound like the sort of man who would keep a lover the age of his daughters? He may have looted the royal granaries, and he may have emptied the Arsenal, but being fixated on a young actress? He does not strike me as a man who does this sort of thing…”

De Thierry stands up and walks to the window. “Lucien Grimaud can do all sorts of things, Bragelonne. I witnessed some of his great achievements. But I agree. He does not seem like the sort of man who keeps a young actress as a mistress,” he says. “Still… he visited her in person. He was seen. And please do not tell me that Lucien Grimaud could be a patron of the theater… There is something else in this story Bragelonne, which we cannot see, and until we do, you are the main suspect for the death of this woman…”

Raoul stands up too. He is no longer dizzy although the throbbing headache lingers. Perhaps it helps to have his mind engaged in unraveling all the twists of this mystery. He realizes, he has been wrong: de Thierry is not just well-spoken but also clear-minded, astute, and insightful. He would not mind a brother like him, if they are indeed brothers.

“I see you feel better,” de Thierry observes. “If you are up to it, we must leave. It is late. We have to go to the Garrison on foot by way of the river as M. de Rohan ordered.”

Raoul begins to get dressed. He chooses civilian clothes instead of his uniform. He grabs his pistols and the Hauteclere. “Perhaps you should not wear your Musketeer hat and cloak,” he tells de Thierry. “Pick anything you like from my clothes that fits you!”

Raoul opens the door. “By the way de Thierry, thank you…” he says. 

“What for?”

“For not asking me if I did it…”

 ****

It is a full moon and starry skies, when they leave the house. They walk towards the river cloaked and armed, lowering their hats, to avoid being recognized by the few passers-by. Neither of them pays much attention to the darkest corner of the street. Had they done so they might have noticed two figures lurking in the shadows, protected from the moonlight. They have been hiding there for a while, and they are both eager to move the moment they see the two young men stepping out. Large corporeal men, both heavily armed. “I will follow them,” one of them whispers in a thick German accent. “I will go tell Lucien,” the other one retorts, hurrying towards the Court of Miracles.

 

 


	54. Preamble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mlle Pouget is found murdered. Lucien Grimaud begins a grim investigation into the death of a young girl he and Sophia believe may be their stolen child. Who is to blame for this tragedy?

There was a sharp intake of breath behind him and he whirled around. Sophia stood at the bottom of the stair, her hand to her mouth, eyes wide with shock. She was still in her nightdress, her dark hair falling past her shoulders. She was barefoot and clutched a blanket around her. She stared at Friquet and then at Lucien. 

‘It can’t be her,’ she shook her head in disbelief. ‘It cannot be her,’ she appealed to Lucien, her voice a whisper.

‘My horse,’ Lucien ordered the footman who turned and walked quickly out the door toward the stables. He turned to Friquet, ‘where have they taken her?’

‘To the theatre sir,’ said the boy. He sniffled and wiped his face. Lucien took him by the shoulder and turned to the housekeeper who had appeared in the entryway.

‘Take him to the kitchen and feed him,’ he said. ‘Yes sir,’ she said and indicated that Friquet was to follow her. He looked at Lucien hesitantly, ‘will you go to see her sir?’

‘Yes,’ said Lucien, ‘you will come with me.’ He turned back to his wife who had not moved, immobilized by shock and confusion. He took her arm gently to lead her back upstairs. She pulled her arm away.

‘You must find out what happened,’ she said firmly, her voice choking as she held back a sob. ‘I will,’ he assured her softly.

‘Please Sophia, come upstairs with me.’ She nodded and let him lead her up the stairs. Her maid was in the bedchamber instructing the house servants to build up the fire and bring hot water immediately. He helped her into a deep chair close to the fire and wrapped the blanket around her. She was shivering.

‘Who would possibly want to kill her?’ she asked him. He knelt on one knee in front of her. He shrugged, ‘I don’t know. She had more than one lover – perhaps someone got jealous,’ he said. He put his arms around her, and she leaned her head against his shoulder.

‘I cannot comprehend it,’ she said, tears pooling in her blue eyes. ‘It’s shocking. She might have been…’ her voice trailed away. ‘She was so very young.’

‘Yes,’ he said. He held her against him, stroking her hair and looked toward the window and the weak light of a winter morning sun. It was cold this morning and had been very cold last night. By the river, the taverns would have been full of men seeking warmth and a glass of ale as they finished their work day. Few to none would have been outside to see a blonde girl and a man. What would they be doing in that area? Why would a lover bring her to that section of the river on cold night? It was close to his wharf. The one that everyone knew about.

‘Will you be alright for a few hours? I want to go see her and where they found her,’ he looked into her face. She was very pale and trembling slightly.

‘Yes,’ she said drawing herself up,’ I want you to go and learn what you can.’ She nodded wiped her eyes. ‘Denise will help me,’ she glanced toward her maid, who was directing the servants to pour the hot water into the small tub. Yusuf entered silently bearing a steaming cup. He handed it to her and she breathed in the lemony scent. She smiled at him gratefully.

‘How does he do these things?’ she murmured to Lucien and sipped the sweet drink. It was an old joke and Lucien smiled, ‘he has more contacts in Persia and the entire world than I do,’ he joked. ‘I should be working for him.’ Yusuf smiled, his eyes downcast and left the room.

‘I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ he said and kissed her. Outside the room, Yusuf was standing in the hallway, waiting for him. Lucien hesitated.

‘I think you should stay close,’ Lucien waited for Yusuf to answer. The servant nodded in agreement, ‘remember to look at her hands for signs of a struggle,’ Lucien nodded, ‘there may be scratches.’

‘Stage hands, servants hear things and remember well with a few coins,’ added Yusuf.

‘Surely not my servants,’ said Lucien wryly.

‘Never your servants sir,’ said Yusuf softly. Lucien clapped the man on the shoulder and walked down the hallway.

He collected Friquet from the kitchens and together they rode from the house into the city streets.

>>

He strode into the theatre. Small groups of weeping people were gathered in the long open room. They looked curiously at him as he entered. Friquet was behind him and Lucien turned to him, ‘where?’ Friquet pointed in the direction of the stage and her room.

‘Stay here,’ Lucien ordered, and he walked the same route he had taken the first and only time he had ever seen or talked to her. More people, in smaller groups of two or three were in the narrow hallway. He pushed his way through to the battered door with the chipped and peeling pain. It was standing open. He walked through it. A man was comforting a weeping woman. They both turned to him and surprise registered on their faces as they recognized him. He nodded briefly and raised his brow questioning. The man pointed to an open door at the far wall. He walked through it into her bedchamber.

She was lying on the bed. She was still in the dress she wore last night. It once had been a pretty dress of silk and velvet, but now it was damp and stiff with river mud. Her bare arms were dirty, and her shoes were missing. Her golden hair had dried and was clumped with the dark silty mire. Her eyes were partially closed, their blue color faded in death, her heart-shaped face was waxy and pale, lips parted slightly and faintly blue. She would hate being seen like this he thought. She loved being beautiful and wanted to look beautiful to those who saw her.

A string of pearls was around her neck but did not obscure the signs of strangulation. It must have been quick he thought. The bruising was not extensive – she had not resisted. He lifted her hands. She had lovely hands, small and soft with slender fingers and oval nails. None of her fingernails were torn or broken. He squeezed her hands gently and examined them carefully. No bones were broken or noticeable marks or scratches. There was no sign she had tried to fight her attacker. Perhaps he took her by surprise – for a moment she had turned her back on him to look at something.

He looked around the room – it was chaotic – but not from a struggle. It was disorderly and cluttered with clothes cast onto chairs and hanging haphazardly from the wardrobe. Shoes were underfoot and a table with a cracked and worn silvered mirror held a chaotic assortment of jars, pins, ribbons, hairbrush and combs, an ornate jewelry box, and jeweled baubles scattered among the debris of a woman’s dressing table - just the ordinary messiness of a young woman enchanted with being adored for her young beauty and looking for the perfect dress and jewels to please her lover. She had not been dragged unwillingly from the room. She had gone with someone she knew. Someone she trusted. Where had he told her they were going? Surely not to the river – why would she agree to go there on a cold night? She might have been killed in the carriage and her body dumped at the river. If he was busy killing her, then someone else was driving the carriage. Servants were unseen, invisible to their masters. But servants were not blind. If he found the carriage, he would find the carriage driver. He sighed – it was a start.

He looked at her for a long moment and sank into a chair next to the bed. Is it you? he asked silently, were you mine? They would never know the truth of her – was this their child? Born from their love and because of that love, condemned to a harsh life and now a terrible death. She must have been frightened, confused, disbelieving – no one to help her – to save her. He touched her cold colorless cheek – even if he could never have been sure she was his child - he should have protected her. I am sorry he said to her silently.

He turned and left the bedchamber. In the outer room the man and woman were talking to a priest. Lucien stopped in the doorway effectively blocking it.

‘The priest is here to give her last rights,’ explained the weeping woman. Lucien stared with a sour expression over her head at the priest. He looked back at the woman. She looked up at him and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief, sniffing loudly.

‘I will pay for the funeral and the stone,’ he said to her. ‘Arrange it as you think she would like.’ The woman blinked in confusion but nodded, ‘yes sir.’ He pulled a bag of coin from his tunic and pressed it into her hand. ‘There is more if you need it.’ She nodded again unable to stop her tears any longer, ‘thank you sir.’

He found Friquet and together they left the theater. ‘Show me where she was found.’ The boy led the way through the city, along the quays and then the pathway that ran next the river bank. Along the way Friquet told him what he had overheard Madame Petit tell the Musketeers.

‘Musketeers?’ he asked neutrally. ‘I saw them coming and ran to tell them. They are friends with the officer,’ said Friquet.

‘What do you know of the officer?’ M Grimaud asked him. Friquet hesitated. He liked the officer he knew as Raoul. But he had seen how men change around women. And he knew Mlle Pouget enjoyed more than one man’s favors. The boy told him about the argument that had been overhead between the officer and Mlle Pouget. M Grimaud listened carefully but said nothing. He seemed more interested in the black carriage.

‘Do you know where the officer is now?’ he asked.

They were standing where she had been found and he was walking around the area, studying the ground. ‘I don’t see her shoes,’ he said. Friquet shrugged, ‘washed downstream most likely sir.’

Lucien nodded, ‘or someone took them.’ He smiled at Friquet, ‘they must have been pretty.’ If someone had taken her shoes, they might have seen something. There may yet be a witness.

The boy shrugged again, ‘I wouldn’t know about ladies’ shoes sir.’ Lucien laughed and tousled his hair, ‘wait until you take a wife, young sir,’ he teased, and the boy blushed.

‘The officer?’ Lucien prompted again.

‘Still in his rooms when I came to find you sir,’ answered Friquet. ‘All right,’ he looked thoughtfully at the boy’s troubled face. ‘You like him – this officer,’ he remarked.

‘Well sir, he’s one of ‘em fancy officers not one of us,’ Friquet sniffed hard, ‘but he was alright with me, gave me a coin. He didn’t try to kick me like some of ‘em.’ Lucien squeezed the boy’s shoulder. ‘Is he a drinking man?’

‘Not that I saw,’ Friquet answered. ‘But I want what’s right for her, sir. She was nice to me, gave me a coin when I did errands and such for her. I don’t reckon she should have ended up here,’ he waved his hand at the muddy river bank and the dark underpass of the bridge. It was lonely and ominous in its seclusion and the river flowing by – a silent witness to whatever had occurred here.

>>

‘You seem troubled Monsieur,’ said Father de Paul quietly to the man sitting in shadows across from him. The man was angled into the chair, legs stretched out before him looking into the fire, the angles of his profile face cut into fractured shadows by its light. He did not answer. The priest sighed and lowered his eyes to his hands, folded across his stomach and closed his eyes in prayer.

Lucien Grimaud drew in his legs and leaned forward to rest his arms on his knees. He rubbed his hands together. He turned his face to the priest who frowned in concern at the fierce anger reflected in the stony set of his face and the tired misery in his eyes.

‘I thought I could escape the past, but I was wrong,’ he said softly. The priest was puzzled, ‘how is this related to her death?’

‘They will come to me,’ he said. ‘ask questions.’ Father de Paul shook his head, ‘there are no questions for you in this,’ he countered.

Lucien snorted bitterly, ‘they invent the questions and the answers. They listen but they do not hear. My past condemns me for any deed.’ He turned his face back to the fire, ‘I will never be other than the stories that arise because of it.’

He turned back to the priest with a cruel smile and spoke softly.  


‘… _those who hate me without cause are more than the hairs of my head, my lying foes who would destroy me are mighty..._ ’

The priest smiled, ‘That is not the entirety of the psalm – you cannot pick and choose what suits your purpose,’ he chastised gently. ‘We should read them together. Let me show you.’

‘Who is your enemy Lucien? Do you fear you cannot control your anger?’ The man did not answer.

‘What is you plan to do?’ asked the priest worriedly. Lucien Grimaud stood and drew his dark cloak around him, bent his neck and settled his hat on his head. He looked at the priest.

‘… _let those who hate him flee before him, let them vanish like smoke when the wind drives it away…_ ’

>>

‘I want to know when he leaves,’ he said to the mercenary. The man nodded and left the tavern. Flea slid into a chair at his table with a bowl of hot food.

‘Have you eaten anything today?’ she asked. He shook his head and stared down at the food. He wasn’t hungry, but it could be a long night and he had enough experience with long nights to know the value of hot food. He drew his dagger and speared a chunk of meat. She watched him apprehensively. Twelve years with the woman he loved, and a family had mellowed him. She thought his days of rash violence might finally be behind him. But now – what she saw his dark cold eyes worried her.

In the year since Porthos left and before Charon had arrived, she met Lucien Grimaud. Newly arrived in Paris, he was a very young man and she brought him into the Court of Miracles. He would watch out for her as she darted through crowds and if the results of her small fingers were detected, he would quickly provide a diversion, a sudden shove, or feet extended to trip and otherwise delay the shout that would bring the city guard to alert and looking for a tiny blond girl running through the streets. He would catch up; grab her hand and race towards the alleyways. They tumbled into the safety of the rough streets that led into the Court, laughing and gasping for breath. They shared everything and on cold nights she nestled against his back as he slept. He would pull the thin blanket over her. He never solicited intimacies from her.

He listened to her as she recounted stories of the Court, how she came to live there, her dead mother and her memories of the father who had abandoned her. She was lonely in the way that children are when they learn, too early, that their survival depends on knowing they cannot trust anyone and yet yearn hungrily to trust someone.

She was hurrying along a dark street when a man appeared and pulled her roughly into the thin shadows between two buildings. She knew it was futile to resist, but she tried to scream and beat her fists against his chest. He gripped her by the throat with one hand and pinned her against the cold wall, the other hand fumbling with his pants. Suddenly he cried out as he was yanked away from her and thrown to the opposite wall of the narrow space with a sickening thud as his head hit the wall. He slid down and instantly there was a dark figure crouched over him. The man raised his hands in defense, grunting as blows were delivered, hard and efficient, and soon he was silent. _‘Stop!’ she gasped. ‘Stop! please – you cannot kill him, the guards….’_ She could still see his face, dark and feral, lip lifted into a snarl, teeth bared. ‘Please,’ she whispered. The death of a noble man in an alleyway would bring the city guard into the Court and many would be hurt or killed.

He carried her across the city and into the relative safety of the passageways in the Court. She woke in a darkened room, a warm cloth bathing her, wiping dirt and blood from her legs, arms and face. _‘Sleep,’_ he said. She raised her thin arms to him, and he slid next to her, gathering her to him and holding her. She curled into him, crying herself to sleep.

She knew he would not stay for long in the Court. No one did, ‘ _do you remember how to find me?’ he asked her again. He slipped a heavy bag of coin into her pocket. ‘Find a safe room,’ he was issuing orders now. ‘This will cover it for a long time. There will be more. Do you remember how to find me?’ he insisted she repeat the instructions back to him. He held her to him, arms tight around her.‘I will always come if you need me,’ he whispered. ___

____

__

‘It’s good,’ he commented and took another bite. Flea studied his face. ‘Is there any news?’ she asked hopefully. He shook his head and continued to eat with silent efficiency, tossing back a tankard of ale. Immediately a serving girl walked to him and refilled his cup. He glanced up at her and smiled his thanks. She blushed to the roots of her hair and Flea clucked her tongue in exasperation and shooed the girl away.

‘Really,’ she admonished him. ‘You are impossible! Someone should tie you up before every female in Paris swoons at your feet.’ He lifted his eyebrows rakishly and tipped his knife at her, ‘only my wife gets to tie me up,’ his eyes winked at her in amusement.

Flea laughed, buoyed by his humor – maybe it was not as bad as she thought. He sat, seeming relaxed, eating and casting his eyes around the room, watching the men at tables talking or playing cards. But there was a restrained tension in the air around him. Furtive glances from others in the room told her she was not the only one who had noticed his mood.

‘How is Sophia?’ Flea asked. He sighed and drained the tankard. He had gone home after examining the riverbank. The Duchess of Aiguillon had just left, having heard the news. She had left a message for him. Sophia was asleep, and he sat in a chair next to the bed watching her. She would think his paying for the funeral to be a risk for him – someone would think it affirmed the rumors that he was her lover. He didn’t care –whether she was his daughter – he didn’t want her dumped into the common grave.

He looked at the tear streaked face of his wife – her sleep restive with bad memories of the past and hollow dreams for the future. The trail to their child was now as cold as the riverbank on which the girl’s body had been found. How had they arrived at this point? Treville and Athos – there would never be justice for their misdeeds.

The golden girl had been an orphan – abandoned and alone in the world. In death, she would be remembered and avenged – if by no other then him. He clenched his fists. He would find the man who had murdered her and thrown her away as the rest of the flotsam that littered the river bank. He would find him - and kill him.

>>  
The tavern door blew open and the mercenary entered the room. He spotted Lucien and nodded. Lucien stood and threw his dark cloak around his shoulders and picked up his sword.

‘Where are you going?’ Flea asked anxiously. He leaned over to kiss her cheek.

‘Stay here,’ she urged, suddenly fearful.

‘Do not worry yourself,’ said Lucien.

‘I am just going to talk to a man.’


	55. Water's Edge

**Author: Mordaunt**

_When lo! a knight, Thierry, is up and stirring—_  
_Brother to Geoffrey Duke of Anjou, by birthright;_  
_He’s lean of body, his limbs are lithe and nervous,_  
_His skin is swarthy and his hair black and curling._  
_Not very tall nor very short you’d term him…_

_(The Song of Roland, 277: 3818-22. Transl. Dorothy L. Sayers)_

They walk fast, cloaked and armed, past the Place de Grève, along the narrow Rue St. Germain. They reach the river, and keep walking towards the Louvre, under a dark gallery below the first row of buildings across the Pont Neuf. A freezing wind is blowing, but Raoul welcomes it. It eases his throbbing headache, and helps his mind focus. He feels exhausted, his heart racing, as if he has woken up from feverish sleep. Cecille, he thinks, she was killed on a night like this…

“Hey you!” cries a voice behind them. “Why in such a hurry?” They hear footsteps approaching. The voice is that of a man: almost affable, familiar.

“Are you speaking to us, Monsieur?” Raoul replies turning towards the stranger.

Bad idea, de Thierry thinks. He realizes they were being followed by two men, rather than one. “We have no business with you!” he interjects pulling Raoul from the sleeve. “Keep walking Bragelonne,” he urges, as the two shadows approach. 

“I disagree,” the man insists, hurrying behind them. “We have quite a lot to talk about!” The sound of drawn swords is unmistakable. This is no chance encounter. Raoul and de Thierry both reciprocate drawing their swords. “Good” the man remarks, “it is that sort of talk…”

“We have no time for this!” Raoul exclaims, “if it is our purses you are after, we will just give you the money.”

The man laughs. “Your purses?” He is closer than de Thierry thought, cloaked in darkness. “No, no, no! I want something altogether different from you…”

The man crosses by an arched opening of the gallery. De Thierry recognizes his features immediately in the feeble moonlight creeping through the covered corridor. “That is Lucien Grimaud!” he whispers to Raoul.

“Your friend is well-informed, Monsieur!” Grimaud scoffs. “Well. You and I, we have some unfinished business…” he points his sword towards them. The tall, broad shouldered man following him extends his sword also, ready to attack. He must be one of those German mercenaries, de Thierry thinks.

They should never have stopped, Raoul realizes. It was a mistake. This is an ambush. The jealous old lover, determined to dispose of the two who betrayed him: first Cecille and now him. “A duel?” Raoul sounds incredulous. 

“No,” Grimaud retorts, “duels are what you people fight. I call this a payback. You owe me…”

“I owe you nothing, Monsieur,” Raoul exclaims. “You are a cold-blooded murderer!” She died on a night like this, Raoul thinks, in the hands of this man.

He is the first to cross swords. De Thierry removes his cloak and hat. There is no longer any reason to hide his Musketeer pauldron. He follows Raoul defending himself against the German. The young Musketeer sizes him up fast: large and powerful but not so flexible. An advantage. He parries carefully making sure he keeps himself in the darkest part of the gallery closer to the wall. Darkness is your friend, de Thierry reminds himself.

“Martin,” Grimaud yells, “stand down and let me fight the Musketeer also. He is mine! They are both mine!” The German distances himself sheathing his sword in silence. He disappears into the shadows, as Grimaud’s sword hisses in the air, a few inches away from de Thierry’s face. He swerves to avoid it, pushing the blade back with his hilt, and his opponent’s sword hits the back wall, sending sparks into the air as it brushes off the stones. “The man is insane,” de Thierry thinks. “Or maybe he has a death wish!”

The fight is fierce. De Thierry finds himself next to Raoul, no longer in the safety of the shadows but closer to the open arcade, towards the river. Raoul is still unsteady, and de Thierry finds that weakness unnerving. Their position unnerves him also. He does not know what lies behind him, once they are out in the open. Fighting with their backs to the river is a disadvantage. For a cut-throat, this Grimaud is a clever strategist with the sword, de Thierry reckons. And powerful, Raoul thinks. “Never underestimate your opponent,” his father had admonished in one of his letters. He wishes his head did not throb so violently. He wishes his heart did not race. He wishes he could think more clearly. He glides his sword underneath Grimaud’s blade aiming for his heart but his opponent is quick to parry…

“Do you take me for a novice, Monsieur?” he growls pushing Raoul out in the open air, on the slippery silt of the river bank. “Well, I’ll be damned!” he exclaims gazing upon Raoul for the first time under the pale moonlight, the Hautelere in hand. “I know that face and that sword! Must be my lucky day! I get to kill one of Athos’ bastards…” He laughs as he flings his cloak over his head trying to hit both young men with it at the same time. “Such a true son of your father!” he continues. “You have as little regard for women as he does…”

“How dare you speak of my father?” Raoul exclaims, incensed. “You just killed an innocent woman!”

“Kill a woman? I don’t hurt women!” Grimaud growls shoving his elbow quickly to hit de Thierry in the face, and keep him from attacking his side. The young Musketeer avoids the hit, flexible, and small as he is. “Your father does that! He tried to kill his wife. Twice. I know because I was there. Then he tried to kill mine…”

“You lie, Monsieur !” Raoul cries out. Not my mother certainly ? he thinks. That is not possible. “You lie and you shall pay for your lies!” He lunges forward.

“Bragelonne, don’t let him provoke you!” de Thierry yells. “That’s what he wants!”

“Ah,” Grimaud sniggers, as if he notices de Thierry for the first time. “You speak! You must be the clever one!”

“I am the one who will kill you!” de Thierry replies. He is surprised his voice is so calm. He has imagined an encounter like this. Staged it in his mind for years. Once, very long ago, he vowed to kill this man…

“Bold words, they teach you at the Garrison?” Grimaud sneers thrusting his sword against both their blades. “All that Treville legacy of honor! Another murderer of innocents! He preferred children though. Stole them from their mothers…”

“So do you!” de Thierry interjects, his voice full of disgust, as his hilt meets that of Grimaud’s. “Only you prefer to burn them alive…” The answer takes Grimaud aback. Is that what they say about him now? That he kills children? The vicious lies of Treville, Athos, and now d’ Artagnan, Grimaud thinks. They would say anything to protect themselves. To keep young men like this one adhering to some hypocritical vow of noble brotherhood. He clenches his teeth in fury pushing both young men onto the creaking wharf. They keep retreating, unable to see behind them, unable to see where the wharf ends. It is exactly where Grimaud wants them to be. He fights the Musketeer but focuses on Athos’ son. Him first…

De Thierry knows exactly what Grimaud is doing. He can see that Raoul is already exhausted having been unwell already, and having received a powerful and calculated attack. If only he could see how far back he can go, or better, slip behind Grimaud, to the other side of the wharf. Perhaps he could, he realizes. The man is tall, wide breasted. Perhaps he could slip under his arm, if Bragelonne distracts him long enough. It is not the distraction he was hoping for. Grimaud pushes hard, and Bragelonne slips on the icy wooden planks, falling onto the wharf. Grimaud slides his sword carefully, slashing Raoul’s doublet on his right side. De Thierry can see the blood…

“I will crush you!” Grimaud exclaims. “For what you have done. A small gift to your father too. That is how I repay him for thinking he had disposed of me and mine. Your noble father thought he had drowned me… the dog that I am. He failed!” He raises his sword to attack Raoul, who tries to stand, his wound bleeding profusely.

“Now,” de Thierry tells himself, swerving fast, and gliding underneath Grimaud’s arm. He is no longer standing with his back against the river…

“Lucien what are you doing?” a woman screams behind them. “Stop! Are you mad?” She dashes forward as if unware of the danger, of the drawn swords, of the fury of fighting men. She jumps onto the wharf next to Grimaud grabbing his arm. De Thierry knows her well: Flea. The one who rules over the Court of Miracles. Further behind her he can see the small frame of a boy: Friquet…

“Martin,” Grimaud yells to the mercenary as he pushes her back, “keep her away, damn you!”

De Thierry has no idea where the mercenary sprung from. But his is suddenly back, grabbing Flea from the waist to remove her from the scene.

“Stand up Bragelonne,” de Thierry yells, and his comrade obeys although it is clear that he will not be able to withstand another attack. Grimaud pushes forward, “you will not stand…” he growls hitting Raoul in the face with the hilt of his sword. Raoul falls on his knees. Grimaud raises his sword…

“Lucien, no!” Flea screams, escaping the German’s grip and seizing Lucien’s arm. “No Lucien! This is Anne’s son! You will kill Anne’s son!”

“Anne!” Grimaud falls back aghast. “This cannot be…”

“Anne and Athos! This is their son!” she exclaims. “Stop, please! For her!” 

> _This cannot be…_

It is only a second but it is a valuable one. De Thierry knows from experience that confusion is the best ally. He crosses his sword with Grimaud’s blade expecting him to turn around, and then pulls his dagger from his boot with his free hand. Swords clash, hilts glide, and de Thierry thrusts his dagger into Grimaud’s other side, where it is most unexpected. “I told you I would be the one to kill you!” he whispers.

Flea screams in terror, and the German draws his sword. If he attacks us now too, neither of us will survive this, de Thierry thinks although he is determined not to surrender. Grimaud staggers, but refuses to surrender also. “That was not a noble move for a Musketeer,” he scoffs.

“This Musketeer is not noble,” de Thierry retorts prepared to fight them both now: the German and his wounded lord. The mercenary moves fast. His sword descends upon de Thierry like an axe, and the Musketeer swerves to avoid it getting a scratch on his shoulder.

“That’s enough, Martin!” Lucien yells. “I do not care about this one! The one I care about I got to his knees.” He moves slowly towards the river bank, his hand on his wound. There is blood now, but he looks unaffected. He turns his back on Raoul and de Thierry with disdain. “Send my best wishes to your father, boy!” he growls.

He walks away supported by Flea and the German, leaving de Thierry and Raoul on the wharf behind him.


	56. Pirates Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Challenges are issued and privateers and Musketeers clash at the river's edge - stopped by a startling revelation that saves Raoul's life but leaves Lucien shocked and injured.
> 
> (Sophia's song is taken from a poem by the poet Rumi)

She awoke with a start and lay still, listening and wondering what had awakened her. The room was dark and the house was quiet. The fire was banked but still warm.

She swung her feet to the floor and sat up on the sofa pulling her shawl around her and stretched her neck side to side. Her body ached as though she had done a day’s work of hard labor and there was a dull ache in her head. Her eyes felt gritty from too many tears and her stomach rumbled and tightened. She couldn’t recall if she had eaten.

She looked around the room. Her maid, Denise was asleep in a chair on the other side of the fireplace, a blanket wrapped around her. Poor woman, she had not left her mistress’ side, coaxing her to eat and sleep. There was no sign of Yusuf. There was also no sign of Lucien. She knew he had returned to the house, but she had been asleep and he did not wake her. He had left a brief note - he was going to talk with a man. He would return late.

It was late now – where was he?

Then she heard it and cocked her head to one side to listen carefully. Voices – barely heard and far away, outside the gate - were they men? She frowned not able to identify or understand what she was hearing. She held her breath.  
Then she heard it more clearly – men’s voices carrying in the still night - now from inside the gate. Coming closer to the house. It sounded like they were…singing.

She got up and went to the window, peering out into the dark. Dark wispy clouds drifted past the moon, its occasional light creating fractured glimpses of the park at the front of the house. Whoever it was they were getting closer. She squinted and looked again.

Three horses, one without a rider, moving at a slow walk occasionally stopping altogether to nibble at the grass growing alongside the wide road leading to the house. The men on the backs of these disobedient horses were waving their arms. Their voices rose suddenly in bass unison – they were indeed – singing! She turned her head slightly to hear the words.

_‘...He who wants to cure an aching head_  
Needs a good old drink a day  
And a table covered  
With sausage and ham...’ 

_‘...Empty us this glass and we will fill it_  
Water rots the lungs  
Drink, drink, drink, friendly drink  
Empty us this glass and we will fill it...’ 

She gasped and pursed her lips in anger. How dare they! The beasts! She recognized the song and the voices – she had heard it all before in taverns in port cities – an old pirate drinking song. And now she was listening it outside her house in the fashionable Marais as they stumbled along in the dark as they must have through the streets of Paris – boisterously singing at the top of their lungs – a trio of drunken pirates.  
She ran to the front entryway startling the footman who was already at the door watching the horses’ slow approach. The dogs were at his feet whining and yipping – they sensed their master among the men.

‘Your Grace – stay back please.’ He hurried down the stairs as stable boys rounded the corner of the house. They stopped in confusion at the sight of the wandering horses and their swaying riders, brandishing bottles of liquor. Two enormous mercenaries and Lucien Grimaud – all swelling their chests and thundering for the benefit of the entire city:

_‘...All that drinking in the tavern_  
Swells his daughter’s breasts  
Proof that a tavern’s medicine  
Shames the doctor’s best’  
Empty us this glass and we will fill it...’ 

The footman took charge of the stable boys, ordering them, ‘get the horses before they wander back into the street.’ By now the unsupervised horses were walking in all directions – toward the house, the trees and one had turned around completely and was walking back to toward the city. The inebriated riders were waving wildly at each other and laughing uproariously, ‘Grimaud – where do you think you are going drunken fool?’ hollered Gunther, hiccuping at inconvenient moments as his horse stopped under a tree to graze. The mercenary clucked at his horse and kicked at his flanks but aside from an irritated snort, the grazing horse ignored him. ‘Obstinate beast,’ muttered the intoxicated mercenary.

At the sight of the stable boys running to get the horses moving in the right direction, the singing swaying men whooped and cheered them on, leaning over their saddles and offering the bottles to the boys who were laughing and trying to catch the wandering horses who veered away abruptly. Gunther sang on in boisterous voice -

_‘So, let’s drink to our good luck my boys_  
Let’s get our kidneys going  
And if Lord Death comes to our door  
Keep the wine flowing’ 

He finished his solo with a great flourish of his hand holding the wine bottle, his oversized body precariously sliding down the side of his horse. The startled animal snorted and lifted his hindquarters upending the man into the snow with a yelp, ‘miserable brute!’ he shouted. A stable boy ran to help him to his feet. He swung his fist in a half-hearted attempt to thump his horse in the hindquarters but the animal, sensing the proximity of both fist and warm stable, trotted away out of his reach. ‘Blast,’ he mumbled and fell face first into the snow.

Martin was riding behind Lucien, who was leaning forward to almost lie against the neck of his horse. He raised his head slightly and saw Sophia standing on the step glaring at him.

‘ello wife,’ he slurred trying to raise his head. He twisted his neck back to Martin, ‘get off you beast,’ he muttered.

Gunther had found the road and was weaving with studied determination toward them still singing at the top of his lungs.

_‘…Bottle, bottle, bottle, friendly bottle  
Empty us this glass and we will fill it…’_

Martin shifted back on the horse to try to dismount and suddenly with a great shout fell off the back of the uneasy horse. Laughing softly, he lay back in the snow, rolling to get his knees under him and reached to grab the horse’s tail ‘don’t kick me you poxy fiend,’ he threatened, ‘or I’ll have you for stew tonight.’ But the horse thought better of this use of his tail and stepped forward smartly.

‘Plague take you!’ he cursed at the animal falling sideways in the snow, the world spinning too fast to make another attempt at standing. He dropped back into the snow with a huge yawn, ‘Grimaud you great pirate bastard – you pushed me off my horse!’ He lifted his head to watch the backside of the wandering animal, ‘Where do you think you are going?’

‘Come on brother, on your feet laddie’ Gunther reached down to drag Martin to his feet, ‘no falling down now,’ he warned. He dislodged the reins from Lucien’s grip and threw an arm around his waist, pulling him from the saddle and lowered him to the ground putting his shoulder under his arm to help him walk to the stairs.

The three men stood together, unsteady and swaying, looking up at her, ‘Your Grace,’ intoned Martin as though he were presenting arms to his general, and with a great flourish of his free arm and hand, ‘we bring you your husband!’

The Duchess de la Croix drew herself up, crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the three drunken men rocking and wobbling in front of her.

‘All of you,’ she commanded unamused and angry, ‘to the stables you fools. You’ll not sleep in this house tonight.’

‘And that includes you sir,’ she pointed at Lucien whose head had dropped forward, his body sagging. If the two men on either side did not hold him up, he would have fallen to the ground. She shook her head at him, ‘really! I cannot understand how you….’

Suddenly she stopped – his tunic was open, and she could see a dark strip of cloth around his chest. Frowning, she walked quickly down the steps to examine it and gasped. Blood. She lifted Lucien’s head, his eyes unfocused and his face pale.

‘Have you been shot?’ she cried. He lifted his head carefully and squinted. Her face and indeed the entire park were spinning around him.

‘Stabbed Madame,’ he cried out pontifical tones. ‘We were just about to mention that,’ rumbled Martin pitching slightly as though he were standing on the deck of a ship.

‘Get him inside you great lump!’ she whirled and ran up the stairs calling for Yusuf. Denise appeared in the doorway, cap askew and staring sleepily and confused at the huge men staggering up the stairs carefully placing their big feet fully on each stair – the master between them.

‘Who stabbed him?’ Sophia was walking briskly ahead of them calling out orders to heat water, clear the table in her work room, build up the fire. ‘A mite of a Musketeer!’ her husband roared and laughed uproariously.

‘A Musketeer boy,’ burped Gunther. ‘A bad business if you ask me Your Grace,’ he pronounced sonorously. She stopped walking and glared at him, ‘what do you mean by a boy – a cadet? Why were you fighting with Musketeers?’ The fools!

‘Don’t think so Madame – a full-fledged one – a bit small, but quick,’ Gunther looked confused at his own description.

‘He got by you,’ mumbled Lucien, and then gave a shout of laughter, ‘and me too! A move worthy of a pirate!’ he poked Gunther in the chest, ‘gonna give him a worthy job,’ and laughed again.

‘Did you kill him?’ asked Her Grace coldly. ‘I didn’t kill him - he said otherwise,’ the mercenary tilted his chin at the man sagging between them, still singing softly.

‘Although I would have if he’d killed the tiny woman,’ he declared.

‘What woman?’ Gunther took a deep breath to steady himself, the man he half-carried and collect enough wits to answer the Duchess. ‘Oh, never mind about that,’ she said crossly. ‘You are all drunk you idiots.’

‘Ja Madame!’ the mercenaries slurred almost in unison smiling idiotically. Martin waved a finger at her, ‘you know him my lady,’ nodding toward his drunken captain, ‘little itty-bitty stab wound, and he hollers like a stuck bull! ‘

Gunther hoisted Lucien up and laid him out on the table. ‘He’s a bit of beast for the stitching if he’s not drunk,’ advised Gunther. ‘Or knocked out.’ He peered into Lucien’s face, ‘get off me ugly oaf,’ Lucien took a swipe at him and missed, his hand falling with a thud to the table.

‘Fools! Go to the kitchen,’ she ordered. ‘Cook will feed you. I want to know what happened tonight.’ She pushed the hulking men from the room, ‘so sober up!’ she commanded.

In the workroom Yusuf was already pulling stoppered bottles and small bags from the shelves and directing a kitchen maid to boil water and collecting the clean bandages stacked neatly under clean cloths. He poured warm water into a basin with a cloth and set it on a small table next to where Lucien lay singing softly to himself and trying to pull his wife down to the table with him, ‘come ‘ere you….’

‘Stop that,’ she scolded. He pursed his mouth peevishly. She wrung out the cloth and gently wiped at his face and neck.

Yusuf produced a sharp knife and cut away at his shirt and the bandage around his chest and arm. Lucien peered at Yusuf,’ heard a story ‘bout me tonight,’ he mumbled and fell back to the table.

A sound from outside the room and the physician M Prujean strode in removing his coat. He rolled up his sleeves, peering over Yusuf’s shoulder at the injury.

‘Prujean,’ slurred his patient, ‘don’t need you,’ he mumbled and tried to roll over and pillow his head with a hand. ‘do need a pillow,’ he ordered his wife laughing softly and fumbled at her dress.

She pushed his hand away irritably, ‘behave yourself!’ He laughed again still humming and closed his eyes, yawning.

The doctor leaned over his patient, ‘I was worried these boys would try to stitch you up with lanyards,’ he turned his patient’s head side to side. ‘You get these bruises in the fight?’

‘In the bar,’ bellowed Lucien, ‘that great German giant of an idiot – he could get into an argument with a door,’ he laughed again, ‘or a dead man.’

The physician checked the preparations and nodded satisfied. He smiled into her worried face, ‘he’s the strongest man I know and too damn stubborn to die. We’ll stitch him up for another time.’

>>  
Dawn arrived as black night begins to fade and suddenly morning birds alert to the changing light were singing their songs to the new colors of the sky. She sat next to him, a heavy shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She held his hand softly singing a song of love. A song in the language of ancient poets.

_‘… I heard my first love story,_  
I started looking for you,  
not knowing how blind that was. 

_Lovers don't finally meet somewhere,  
they're in each other all along..’_

Yusuf entered quietly and set a steaming cup, fragrant with the scent of lemons on the table next to her. She smiled and lifted the cup with her free hand, sipping it carefully. Yusuf placed his hand on the sleeping man’s forehead and nodding approvingly. In the night, fever had roared to life and Lucien had been restive and combative. She had bathed his face and body with a cool cloth and Yusuf coaxed him to drink the special tea he prepared. Now it had subsided to a low flame and he slept. Yusuf rolled back the bandage, preparing to clean and re-bandage the wound.

Outside the workroom she could hear the house awakening to a new day. The sounds of day break were muted as the cook silenced the usual chatter of the kitchen staff and the maids, the stomping of snow from boots as the grooms, stable boys, drivers and gardeners entered the back of the house. They sat quietly and ate their breakfast and then moved on to their daily tasks.

‘We can move him to the bedchamber Madame,’ Yusuf was rolling a clean bandage across the wound and around his master’s chest, securing it firmly. ‘He would be more comfortable.’ He didn’t add that she would also be more comfortable.

‘Are you sure?’ she asked anxiously as she stroked Lucien’s hair from his cheek. Yusuf nodded.

‘I will have the bed prepared.’ He left the room as quietly as he had entered.

The footmen gently placed their master on a board and carried him up the stairs to the bedchamber and laid him on the bed as she stacked pillows behind him. Lucien groaned slightly but did not open his eyes. Sophia covered him carefully and drew a chair closer to the bed. Lucien turned his head toward her. Eagerly she leaned toward him, kissing his cheek and lips tenderly, her hand caressing his cheek.

‘My love,’ she whispered. He gave a small rakish smile and barely lifted his eyelids. ‘You were singing,’ his voice was hoarse. ‘Yes,’ she chuckled, ‘not as well as you.’

‘I remember the song,’ he murmured, ‘you were learning the lute. In the blue house.’ They called the house in Marseille the blue house because of the blue tile that covered the floors and decorated the walls of the public rooms, and in the bathhouse.

‘Let’s go there,’ she said softly. ‘We were happy in that house.’ He nodded, closed his eyes and patted the bed next to him. She walked around to the other side of the bed, removing her shoes and slipping out of her dress to her chemise. She slid under the covers to lay next to him. She smoothed the bed linens over him and studied his profile - the strong line of jaw, long lashes against his cheeks, his mouth relaxed in sleep. The fight had been rash, throwing down an ill-considered challenge and fighting two men. A moment of startling revelation and foolhardy distraction. He could have died.

In their early years together, his audacity left her breathless and fearful for him. It was not easy for her to evade Treville or Athos and they had little time together. One night, he came to her chambers – but he did not climb over the balustrade to the balcony or sneak through an open window. He strolled through the palace galleries – dressed in beautifully tailored deep blue velvet tunic and cloak, his boots polished to a mirror shine, his gleaming dark hair sweeping his collar and clean shaven. His muscled strength and chiseled features rivaled the statues of Roman gods and he walked the hallways with the confident strides of a conqueror.

She had gasped as he came through her door and swept her into his arms, ‘they will kill you for this!’ He laughed as he lowered her to the bed, ‘I shall die a happy man.’

‘You are impossible,’ she murmured, and he gathered her to him, ‘anything is possible with me.’ As birds twittered the approaching dawn, he whispered, ‘I must leave you now,’ and disappeared through the doors leading to the balcony.

Now she lay against his familiar shape, smooth skin over marbled strength, the ribbed feel of old injuries on his chest or arms marking other bold acts. She listened to his quiet steady breathing and suddenly a sob rose in her throat and clutched at her chest, her heart thudding with fear. In his sleep he reached for her hand and tugged her closer. She lay her cheek against his strong arm and watched the early dawn light grow brighter as the sun rose on a new day.


	57. Wounded Faith

**Author: Mordaunt**

_Farewell false love, the oracle of  lies..._

_(Sir Walter Raleigh, ca. 1592)_

The room is dark except for the fire in the large fireplace and a half-burned candle dripping on one of the long tables. They are all gathered here, in the Garrison mess hall, Constance too, holding a basin of hot water and fresh towels. The boy, Raoul, Athos’ son, is seated next to the fire, his shirt removed. It is drenched in sweat and blood from a sword wound on his right side. It is a flesh wound but it bleeds profusely. Attacked, as Constance overheard by Lucien Grimaud. What was Lucien thinking? she asks herself.

They are all crowded around Athos’ boy: de Rohan pouring wine, Marchal throwing logs into the fire to keep him warm, for his teeth are rattling, and his lips are almost purple from the cold. M. de Thierry, who carried him all the way to the Garrison, arrived also drenched in sweat, and panting, with a sword wound on his shoulder. He claimed it was just a scratch, and that the effort helped him keep warm. Constance was not at all convinced. “Put a dry shirt on at least…” she urged him shoving him into the pantry at the back of the mess hall, and closing the door, “or you will catch your death.” He too is standing next to Raoul now, ripping clean linens for bandages. D’ Artagnan paces up and down the room.

“I want to hear every detail you can remember, M. de Thierry,” he demands. “Lucien Grimaud himself attacked you?”

“Grimaud, and one of his German mercenaries called Martin,” the young man retorts. “That is the closest I have ever been to Lucien Grimaud. There was also a woman…” He hesitates. He is not willing to reveal that this woman is someone he knows. “He called her Flea… I believe this is the name of the so-called Queen of the Court of Miracles…” He dissimulates but his earlier life is no one’s business, and it has nothing to do with the events of this strange night. He does not mention Friquet either. Best leave the boy out of it, he decides.

M. Marchal looks up. “Flea… You remember Captain…” he says.

“Madame Boucher…” of course I remember, d’ Artagnan scoffs, recalling Flea strutting into the King’s bedchamber pretending to be the poor widow of a baker. “It makes sense,” d’ Artagnan adds, “that she is associated with Grimaud. She sells much of what he procures through his trade from the back of that tavern…”

“She certainly knew him.” M. de Thierry observes. “I cannot understand it, Captain. From what we were told, Grimaud was one of Mademoiselle du Pouget’s callers. It might make sense that he would seek revenge thinking Raoul killed her. And yet he did not speak about it. He just spewed vague threats…”

“That is ridiculous!” Constance exclaims. “Sit still young man,” she tells Raoul, who writhes in pain as she cleans his wound. “I need to stitch that too,” she adds. “That is ridiculous!” she repeats, “Lucien! That girl’s lover?” D’ Artagnan stops his pacing midway. She realizes suddenly everyone is staring at her. It was a mistake.

M. de Rohan breaks the awkward silence. “It is what Mademoiselle du Pouget claimed, Madame. You can ask Raoul,” he says quietly. “It is also what more than one witness from the theater can attest to. He visited her, privately.”

“Cecille claimed he was enthralled by her,” Raoul says quietly. “I did not believe it either Madame, but she talked about him as a lover. It is also true that on the night of her first performance in Scevole, Lucien Grimaud had people outside the theater specifically looking for her.” He decides not to mention Friquet. There is no reason to implicate the boy, he decides.

It is ridiculous, Constance thinks. Ridiculous but the most obvious explanation. Should she reveal what she knows? That Lucien thought the dead girl was his daughter? But how would she explain that she knows it? How could she admit that she helped him look for this daughter? That she sees him as a friend? And how would she then explain to these young men here the story of this lost daughter: Treville’s disapproval of Lucien, Athos’ intransigence, Sophia almost dying shot by Athos, Treville’s death in the hands of Lucien, Athos’ retaliation… How could she explain all this to this boy, Athos’ son, who is already injured and battered? She decides to remain silent. “Well, I still think it is ridiculous,” she says peevishly, cleaning her needle in boiling water as Dr. Lemay had once advised. “A man with daughters her age… A man who loves his wife…” She turns to d’ Artagnan. “At least you and I know that! I know Sophia, and so do you!” she exclaims.

D’ Artagnan brushes his chin with his hand. He is suspicious, Constance thinks. He always does this when he is suspicious. She wishes she could see his eyes, but he stands in the dark, away from the fire and the candlelight. “Yes, we know the Duchess de la Croix, his wife” he says, his voice inscrutable.

“Duchess!” M. Marchal exclaims. “I keep forgetting the man is married to a Duchess!”

“She is a great lady, M. Marchal,” the Captain remarks in a tone that does not permit further discussion of the matter. “So, what else did he say when he attacked you, M. de Thierry?”

“That is the strange thing, Captain,” the young man replies, handing Constance another bandage. “He spoke of Captain de la Fére…” Raoul looks up, his gray eyes meeting de Thierry’s hazel ones, his gaze speaking, begging for discretion. “…In no kind words… and he kept insulting me, us, Musketeers, Captain de Treville…” de Thierry falters, trying to give himself time to find a way to tell his Captain the truth, while not revealing all that he heard. “He spoke…of… of… Captain de la Fére, being M. de Bragelonne’s father. Of Captain de la Fére failing to drown him!” That is probably safe to say, he reckons. 

“Well, he would say all that…” d’ Artagnan interjects. “I would not be surprised if Grimaud was looking for an opportunity to do something like this for a long time… Bragelonne looks like his father…”

“He recognized the sword, Captain,” Raoul adds feebly.

“Of course,” d’ Artagnan says. He turns around, aware of the silence and the lingering question in his men’s eyes. “I suppose I have to tell you about it…” He pulls up a wooden chair and sits, still in the dark, away from the fire.

“It is true. Athos wanted Lucien Grimaud dead. We all did. He is a cold-blooded murderer. He killed Minister de Treville. Our Captain… Shot him through the heart while he was already bleeding to death. A ruthless coward…” D’ Artagnan’s voice betrays anger and pain. “Athos got the opportunity to avenge our Captain’s death. He thought he had drowned that rabid dog under the Notre Dame. But he failed…” He stands up kicking the chair, and starts pacing in the room again. No one dares to breathe. No one has ever seen their Captain so affected. No one had thought it possible. But they understand him. They would do the same for him, and for each other…

Constance lowers her eyes, focusing on fixing Raoul’s bandages. She is glad she did not speak. She remembers that horrible day clearly: the day M. de Treville was killed. The noblest and kindest of men. She feels sobs rising in her chest, and tears filling her eyes. She is glad she did not speak. It is impossible to reconcile that painful loss with her understanding of Lucien’s motives. She wishes she were like d’ Artagnan. She wishes she could see the world as clearly as he does. She wishes she did not know…

“Anything else, M. de Thierry?” The Captain has regained his composure.

The young Musketeer looks awed, Constance observes, and overwhelmed.

“No… No, Captain. He declared this was revenge against Captain de la Fére…” It is not exactly accurate, de Thierry thinks, but he also realizes that of all the strange recriminations that Lucien Grimaud spewed against Raoul, this one was the most significant: that Captain de la Fére had tried to kill him and the woman he loved. His current wife? Another? It was all confusing and difficult to follow…But then, M. de Thierry surmises, this is what men like Lucien Grimaud do. They accuse others of the heinous crimes they have committed. He has no doubt about his assessment of the man. Although he never met Lucien Grimaud face to face until this night, M. de Thierry knows well what Grimaud is capable of: Captain d’ Artagnan’s account is all too real. Minister de Treville’s murder, shot while bleeding to death, is all too familiar. He has seen the brutality of Lucien Grimaud and his accomplices. Witnessed it in that life he left behind. Captain de la Fére’s vow to avenge his dead Captain against Lucien Grimaud is the closest M. de Thierry has ever felt to the man who he believes is his father.

“This does not help our case, Captain,” M. Marchal observes. "If the attack against the Vicomte was not related to the death of the actress but it was personal revenge, then it is mere coincidence.”

“It seems to me it was related,” M. de Rohan says. “Why would Grimaud ambush Raoul? Both de Thierry and Raoul attest that he did not know he was Captain de la Fére’s son until he recognized him and his sword. It is clear that he had you followed, Raoul. He had his men on you from the beginning. This was no chance meeting. What other reason would he have to do this, but the death of Mademoiselle du Pouget? Whatever she was to him—let’s say she was not his lover, but someone he cared or paid for, a ward of some sort—he was planning to kill the man who lived in your apartments. You just happened to be the son of his old enemy…”

M. Marchal agrees. M. de Rohan’s argument is convincing and logical. “I believe you are correct, Lieutenant…” he says. He ponders for a while, and then he adds. “In that case, we have to ask why he would want to ambush the resident of those apartments… Jealousy? Anger because this young woman he protected had a lover? We understand she had many lovers, why this one? Although witnesses at the theater say they heard an argument from her rooms that night no one actually saw Raoul, they all assume it was him.”

“Perhaps it is simpler than that,” M. de Thierry interjects. It suddenly all begins to make sense to him. The Lucien Grimaud he knows, the one his Captain described, and the one he encountered earlier this night, fierce and murderous at the side of the Seine: they are all one person and his motivations have never changed. “The Captain gave us the answer already, Messieurs.” M. de Thierry says. “Lucien Grimaud is a cold-blooded murderer. The kind that shoots a dying man. The kind that has no conscience. The kind that deflects his guilt upon others. Lucien Grimaud had some kind of investment in Mademoiselle du Pouget. Perhaps she helped him in his trade somehow. It might not be difficult to discover what was going on in that theater after hours. Perhaps she talked too much. She betrayed him. He silenced her…”

“You may have a point!” M. Marchal exclaims. “Did you notice that Filandre? He did not seem a bit surprised or shocked by the girl’s death…”

“Yes,” M. de Rohan agrees. “So then, Lucien Grimaud tries to kill Raoul… twice. For as I told you Captain, when we found him this morning he was unconscious. I think he had been drugged…”

Constance has finished bandaging the young Vicomte who looks exhausted, and a bit drunk after the five glasses of wine M. de Rohan poured for him. She helps him wear a dry shirt, listening carefully. No, you are all wrong, she wants to cry out. Lucien was simply looking for his daughter, and he found her dead at the side of the river! But then again, all the other facts are against him, she reckons. Why attack this young man? Twice? Goodness Lucien, she thinks, what did you do? “Lucien Grimaud does not drug people…” she ventures. “You know this, Charles. Shoot? Yes! Attack with a blade? Certainly! But drugging people…” 

“Perhaps not, Madame,” M. Marchal replies. “But that woman, Flea, would. She was clearly involved. She would do anything for Lucien Grimaud. We must consider that this man has accomplices: many dangerous allies all over this city, and an army of mercenaries, thieves, highwaymen, and pirates.”

“Why kill me…?” Raoul inquires. He slurs his words slightly.

“Perhaps because he believed the assumptions of the people at the theater without bothering to find out if you were actually in her room the night she died. Perhaps he believes that you killed this young woman he protected. But it is also possible that you saw something. Something that M. Grimaud did not want anyone to see…” M. Marchal replies. “Once you remember what happened last night at the Marais, we may be able to figure out exactly what it is that you saw…”

“It may have to do with that black carriage!” M. de Thierry exclaims. "The one that waited outside the theater late at night…”

“Well!” D’ Artagnan says, “Messieurs, I believe we have our work cut out for us. I have no doubt that Lucien Grimaud is behind all this, as he is behind the looting of the Arsenal and the royal granaries. We are running out of ammunition and bullets because of him. The army too. General du Vallon tells me they have enough powder for just another month. The Queen wants Lucien Grimaud’s head. We cannot deliver it to her for there is an amnesty and a truce signed by her hand. If we cannot deliver him as a traitor, we can perhaps deliver him as a murderer…” He fixes his gaze upon Constance as if to gauge her reaction. She lowers her eyes. She would rather not be in this room…

“I think I should return to that theater…” M. de Rohan proposes.

“Excellent notion, M. de Rohan," the Captain agrees. "Use your celebrated equanimity to get some of those actors to trust you. Places like the Marais are dens of backhanded gossip, M. de Rohan, and we need to learn everything. What was his name, Filandre? Find out why he was so unaffected by the news of the girl’s death, as M. Marchal pointed out. Find out what other business that theater conducts after hours. I would not be surprised if it serves as one of M. Grimaud’s warehouses.”

“I think we need to look into that black carriage that M. de Thierry mentioned, Captain,” M. Marchal says.

“Yes, M. Marchal. Let’s find out if Grimaud owns one or hides one…” he stops and thinks for a moment as if weighing different outcomes. “Let’s not beat around the bush. I want you, and M. de Thierry to pay a visit to Grimaud tomorrow morning. Perhaps he will be in the right mood after being injured. Let’s play with our cards in the open. It is our turn to ambush him…”

“Captain,” M. de Thierry sounds tentative. "Do you think it is a good idea to have me interrogate Lucien Grimaud? He knows me. I am the one who injured him... He will see it as a provocation…”

“Of course, he will,” the Captain retorts, his eyes gleaming. “I am counting on it.”

****

She walks into D’ Artagnan’s study. Alexandre has just fallen asleep again after his night feeding. She does not like to keep the wet nurse this late at night. After midnight Alexandre is hers alone, and she cherishes this time more than any other. The room is dark, no light but the pale moonlight sliding in, between the thick velvet curtains. She walks into the room fastening her stays, entirely engrossed by the feeling of contentment and joy that comes with Alexandre’s soft little hands pressing against her skin, his sleepy eyes opening reluctantly when he seeks more of his mother’s milk, the faint satisfied sounds when he discovers it.

“I waited for you,” he says, and she almost jumps, startled 

“Goodness, you scared me, Charles!” she exclaims.

He is seated in the darkest corner of the room. She can see his shadow outlined in the pale moonlight: leaning back in his chair, booted legs spread out, his hands crossed on his chest.

“Why do you lie to me, Constance?” He does not sound angry. Just tired. The question falls like a sharp, barbed, icicle between them. The room feels frigid suddenly. She refuses to stand there, awkwardly in the darkness like some naughty child being scolded. She brushes off the chill, and sits on a chair across the room. She has nothing to apologize for. “What do you want to ask me, Charles?”

“What do you know about Lucien Grimaud that I don’t? And how much are you involved with this man’s business?”

She takes a deep breath and begins her story…

****

“Bragelonne shall stay with de Thierry tonight,” the Captain ordered. “If we must defend two of ours from phantom murderers sent over the walls by Grimaud tonight, I would rather we defend them in one room. It is just a few hours until dawn. M. Marchal you will remain outside that room with M. de Rohan. Make sure no one comes close. Bragelonne, you will stay at the Garrison until your name is cleared, for you realize that besides Grimaud you are the only other suspect for this murder. Besides, you were attacked twice in one day. You are not returning to your apartments, and you are not going back to the General’s headquarters. The Garrison is walled, protected, and there is only one gate that is locked to outsiders. You are safe here, unless of course someone flies over the wall. I will write to the General…” He noticed concern in Raoul’s eyes. “Don’t worry Vicomte, what happened today will stay between us for the moment. That does not mean that at some point I will not share it all with your father. But not today…”

M. de Rohan and M. Marchal help Raoul into M. de Thierry’s quarters. “It is your lucky day, de Thierry!” M. Marchal jokes, as they lay Raoul on de Thierry’s cot.  

“I am used to it by now,” he shrugs.   

“I am proud of you de Thierry!” M. de Rohan whispers on his way out, “you took my advice to heart,” and M. de Thierry bows to him with a smile.

“I should not be taking your bed,” Raoul objects attempting to stand the moment they are alone.

“Don’t be stupid Bragelonne,” de Thierry retorts, setting himself comfortably in the deep recess of the windowsill, “this has not exactly been the best day of your life. You need to sleep. I am fine up here.”

Raoul pushes himself to the edge of the bed with difficulty, wincing with pain. He sits on the side of the bed, running his fingers through his hair. “Thank you,” he whispers, “for not telling the Captain everything. 

“There was nothing to tell. Did you expect me to repeat what that murderous garbage spewed just to provoke you?”

“He said my father tried to kill my mother…twice... Execute her…”

“Rubbish, just rubbish…”

“I thought you would agree with him. You do not have a high opinion of my father…”

“Listen,” de Thierry jumps from the windowsill and moves towards Raoul, kneeling at his feet. “Listen Bragelonne! What I think about your father has nothing to do with anything that rabid dog has to say. Your father may have rejected me, and that is between him and me. But he was Captain of the Musketeers. I saw him once you know, back then: stern and solemn, and full of courage as Musketeers have been and will always be. I am proud to be a Musketeer like him. I take my oath seriously: One for All—All for One. It connects us all. Those who came before us and those who will come after us. I will stand by your father and fight at his side any time…”

“What if it is true…?” Raoul’s voice trembles.

De Thierry grabs Raoul by the shoulders and straightens him up. “Bragelonne, look at me,” he exclaims. “You heard our Captain’s story. Your father had every reason to want to kill that murderous criminal. Nothing that man says has meaning or significance. He wanted to provoke and insult. He hates Musketeers. He said as much. He kills people without thinking, Raoul. Innocent people. He and his men have no soul, no conscience. I know because I have met them…”

Raoul looks up now, perplexed. “You have met Lucien Grimaud before?”

“No, but I have met his men before. One day I may even tell you. When I know you better. Now you have to sleep,” de Thierry declares, standing up and walking towards his favorite spot by the window. “You look terrible by the way…” he scoffs.

Raoul lays back in bed closing his eyes, a faint smile on his lips: “you don’t look that great yourself,” he retorts. “And you are still a terrible cheat…”

De Thierry leans his head against the wall, seated comfortably by the window. “And you are still an arrogant arse,” he replies with a smile.

Outside snow begins to fall …


	58. Names the Matter

**Author: Mordaunt**

 

 _Une jeune fillette_  
_de noble coeur,_  
_Plaisante et joliette_  
_de grand' valeur_  
_Outre son gre on l'a rendu' nonnette_  
_Cela point ne luy haicte_  
_dont vit en grand' douleur._

_(Anonymous, ca. 1576 or earlier)(1)_

Outside the window, snow drifts in the wind against the dark blue hues of dawn. Across the room, de Bragelonne lies fast asleep, exhausted by the events of the previous day, and probably a little drunk. Perhaps for the best, de Thierry thinks. The young Musketeer leans against the window, unable to sleep. To finally meet that man, to find Grimaud at the edge of his blade! He had hoped for such an encounter although he would never provoke it. This is about justice, not about revenge. De Thierry always believed that if he waited, fate would intervene. Still, he had imagined it all very different: that he would finally invoke the names of Grimaud’s innocent victims.

All the names that matter…

*****  
After that first winter night, when the walls of Bicêtre opened, leaving the orphanage became a habit.  Rato and Pinchar would both go to vespers, march silently to their cots, kneel and pray along with the rest, and once all candles were blown, they would slip out of their wards in their long shirts, carrying their clothes and shoes. Sister Inéz and Sister Marguerite, who were in charge of the two wards were young, and as mistreated by the Abbess as the orphans. It was impossible for the Sisters to stay awake all night, exhausted by the hard work they were forced to do all day.

Rato and Pinchar would move stealthily and barefoot along the paved corridors, and then dash to the empty barn behind the refectory where they could quickly put on their clothes. He had a little cap he always wore outside the walls, and she wore her colorful silk scarf around her neck. From there, the back wall of the orphanage was easy to reach for there was a little dark wilderness past the small cemetery, and it was not protected by dogs or a guard. The wall was old, crumbing, and easy to scale. They jumped onto any wagon that would take them. They entered Paris from different gates, pretending to be one thing or another depending on who was driving: the siblings of a barrel maker, the cousins of a miller, and once the son and daughter of an armorer, who was carrying muskets to the Bastille through the Gate of St. Antoine.

She saw Paris in the spring, when the gardens around the grandest houses filled with roses and lilacs. She saw it on hot summer nights when, through the large open windows, fragrances she had no name for, infused the air, and the sound of laughter and music animated the stillness of the streets. There was music and laughter at Flea’s tavern in the Court of Miracles but it was not the same.

Rato knew many tricks with cards and dice, but he always let her try the one with the Black Queen. Mostly they got pushed around and kicked by drunks, but some nights card games earned them a sous or two. Those were good nights.

“Who’s that scrawny duckling who thinks she can play card tricks?” the man asked Rato. It was a humid night, late in the summer. He had burst into Flea’s tavern followed by two other men. Neither Rato nor Pinchar had ever seen the three of them before. The man had a face impossible to forget: scarred from pox, angular, with small eyes deep in their dark sockets, his front teeth all made of gold. He was gaunt, bending slightly, a large sword and three pistols in his belt. The other two men sat next to him around an empty table. One of his companions, a large barrel-chested man with a long beard, called for Flea in a deep sonorous voice.

“She is my little sister!” Rato explained to the man with the gold teeth, and Pinchar felt proud, as never before.

“Tell her to come over here and play us a few rounds!” the man with the gold teeth proposed winking to the other two. Pinchar approached the table although she would rather not have to. She did not like the man with the gold teeth. She did not like how he looked at her through his small empty eyes.

“Are you playing with children now, Benito,” Flea sneered at the bearded man with the sonorous voice. “Is that what your fearless lot is reduced to now? Gambling with children, and riding around stealing people’s purses?” She poured him wine in a tankard.

“It’s temporary,” the bearded man said downing the wine and tapping his tankard on the table so that Flea would fill it again. “As you know it is our old friend who has brought us to this. But I have no doubt he will get us out…”

“Don’t you dare speak of him!” Flea interjected. She sounded angry, and something else, Pinchar thought: she sounded scared. Pinchar never thought Flea could be scared. Flea motioned to leave, but the bearded man she had called Benito grabbed her forcefully spreading her hand on the table. “Going somewhere, love?” he asked quietly. “Rouge,” he ordered the silent man in his company. He was smaller than the man with the gold teeth, but looked very strong, like those brutes in fairs who break chains with their bare hands. Rouge pulled out a small steel dagger, and nailed it on the table between Flea’s fingers.

“We are here because of him, love.” The bearded man held Flea's hand firmly on the table despite her efforts to disengage from his grasp. He spoke in a quiet, deliberate tone: “He stranded us here, so now what we do is because of him. We do all this for him! He is after all our master!” He snorted, and so did the man with the gold teeth, who almost choked on his wine. The silent man, called Rouge, just smiled. “You’ll tell him all this, love, will you?” Benito continued. “Tell him we need to talk. If he refuses, we will just send him a bit of you to stir up happy memories…” He eased his grasp as Flea pulled away gasping. “Go to hell!” she exclaimed, and Benito blew her a fake kiss, which made his two companions burst in a roar of laughter.

“Come closer girl!” the man with the gold teeth ordered Pinchar, and she approached him despite herself. Rato approached too, holding her hand firmly.

“Look at that young man! Protecting his little sister!” the man with the gold teeth remarked pretending he was touched. “Now that is a young man full of promise, ain’t he Benito?”

The bearded man nodded sipping from his tankard. “As he should.” And then turning to Rato he asked: “What is your name, boy?”

Rato lowered his eyes, and gave his name in a quiet voice. Pinchar never thought Rato could be demure. “Rato, eh?” Benito smiled. “You do look like a mouse indeed. A sensible Galician name!” He leaned towards them. “What say you, boy? Will you tell a fellow Galician when a man called Lucien Grimaud shows up in these parts? We are his best friends. We all work for him you see, and we need to settle a small business matter…”

That was the first time Pinchar heard the name Lucien Grimaud. There would be a second.

The men gambled ten rounds on Pinchar’s Black Lady, and lost every single one without complaining once. She knew that they had let her win. Why, she was not certain. She would rather they had not. She did not like the man with the gold teeth and empty eyes. He made her skin crawl. She would rather have lost…

“We got all this money, Pinchar!” Rato was excited when they jumped onto the old wagon of a man called Paillet that night. Paillet collected the dead from the neighborhoods around the Court of Miracles all day, and after he’d drop them off at des Innocents, spent most of the night drinking at Flea’s tavern. Paillet came from Gentilly, not too far from Bicêtre. “Once we have enough money we will go to Galicia!” Rato exclaimed, his frizzy hair outlined against the full moon, as the wagon creaked and jolted along the country road. “I will become a privateer, and have my own ship, and you will open a tavern like Flea!” She was not certain she wanted to open a tavern, but she liked Flea. A Queen. Imagine becoming the Queen of Galicia, she marveled!

Leaving Bicêtre became very easy as the years went by. The route was familiar. They knew where the old stone floor was slippery, and what parts of the corridor were lit by  moonlight on nights with a full moon. They knew where to find the shadows, and where to hide. Rato got tall almost overnight. He suddenly could reach the third row of fallen stones at the old wall behind the barn without even having to scale it. She was not that tall but she was fast, and light on her feet. They roamed the streets of Paris after sunset, playing card tricks at fairs, teasing fish-stink Pascal, who sold fish behind the Filles-Dieu and at the Rue des Poissonnieurs, laughing with street performers, and singing with street musicians. Rato had a beautiful voice, and it often earned him a coin or two. They ran errands for men in Flea’s tavern, and for Joseph, a blacksmith who made chains for prisoners at the Rue de St. Paul close to the Bastille.

“Pinchar, let’s find out our real names tomorrow night!” Rato whispered as they were walking back to Bicêtre from the crossroads where Paillet had dropped them off. It was almost Easter, before the dawn of Good Friday. “Let’s see what’s in the old crone’s book!” The Abbess kept a large leather-bound registry. She would beat on it with her stick every time Pinchar or Rato were dragged into her study for some punishment or other. “Remember,” she threatened narrowing her pale eyes, “you came into this life full of sin, and in here lies the proof…” Pinchar was not sure she wanted to see her name, the dark, heathen one. She felt safe not knowing. She was afraid that if she would see it written in ink it would be real, unavoidable, as if stamped on her skin. But then, again, perhaps she wanted to see it. She thought about her old scarf. About the beautiful lady holding the hawk under the blossoming tree. What if she was named after her? A lady as luminous as this could never have a dark, heathen name…

“What if we are caught?” she ventured.

“Naah!” Rato scoffed. “We will never be caught! After the procession, the mass, the repentance, and all the prayers for Good Friday, even the Abbess cannot keep her eyes open!” He was right. Good Friday was always a long tedious night for everyone. Rato’s plan was simple: “Meet me outside the door of her study when the bell rings an hour after midnight! Bring your hairpin!” It was easy to sneak out of the ward. Easier than usual. Sister Inéz had been chosen to keep vigil by the Lord’s Tomb all night, and Sister Gabrielle who replaced her, was old, older than the Abbess. She would fall asleep even during mass. She was snoring loudly when Pinchar slipped by her into the empty corridor, barefoot, and in her plain long shirt. Pinchar moved stealthily towards the Abbesses’ study. Rato was already there. The door was locked, but a hairpin in the hands of Rato could open any lock.

They had both been in this room numerous times, called to stand before the heavy wooden desk and be punished. Pinchar could hear the whipping sound of the birch rod in the Abbesses’ hand, haunting the darkness. Besides the desk, a chair, and a large cross on the wall behind the desk, the room was empty, lit by three arched windows opening to the yard with a view to the church. It was a moonless night. The book stood where it always did: the only object on the clean, bare top of the desk. Its feeble lock gave away immediately to Rato’s skillful hands.

They both pored over its large fragile pages afraid they might tear them as they turned them with great impatience. “There!” Pichar whispered. Her finger followed the Abbess’ disciplined cursive. “Galician, called Rato” the Abbess had noted at the end of a line. Rato stared mesmerized at the beginning of the line as Pinchar read the entire entry:

 

> “Afonso Manoel d’Armas. Born 25 November 1631. Galician. Called Rato.”

She turned the page, her heart beating, her finger tracing a list of other names including some familiar ones:

 

> “Cecille. Marie. du Pouget d’ Aboel…”

She traced further down the registry and stopped aghast: “arrived wrapped in heathen cloth,” the Abbess had noted in ink at the end of another line. And next to it: “brought on the night of 19 June, 1632, three months old, by….” It was not what she had expected at all. Besides, that could not be her real name… It could not…!

“Who’d have thought,” Rato giggled, but stopped immediately, faced with the anger in her eyes. “It is a beautiful name, Pinchar,” he whispered, apologetically. “Sounds like music…”

“Call me, Pinchar!” she demanded closing the book, and moving to the door. “This is who I am. I will not be this name!” He followed her to the door, his eyes lowered. He had hoped to make her happy. “Call me Rato then!” he acquiesced, disappointed. He liked his real name.

Rato opened the door. The corridor outside the Abbess’ study was no longer empty. A small slender shadow was lurking in the dark. “What did you two do in there?” A girl’s voice.

“What are you doing here?” Rato replied, frozen where he stood at the door.

The girl moved closer. “I was keeping vigil by the Holy Tomb with Sister Inéz,” she said, her tone coy and sweet. Pinchar knew that voice well, even when she did not sing like the angels:  

 

> "Cecille. Marie. du Pouget d’ Aboel. 17 April 1632. God’s Precious Gift.”

“I noticed you coming this way…” the girl continued, “you two are always together, and going places.” She turned to Pinchar: “It is sinful to be with him like that!” She sounded exactly like the Abbess, only not at all convinced by her own words. “Why would anyone want to be with an ugly scrawny thing like you, I cannot understand…” she added peevishly.

“She is my friend,” Rato interjected.

“Can’t I be your friend too, then?” she sniveled.

“No.” Pinchar said.

“I don’t care what you say, Heathen!” the girl exclaimed. “Only what he says!”

“No.” Rato shrugged.

“Then I will let everyone know you tried to steal from our beloved Mother!” Cecille said quietly.

“If you do that,” Pinchar replied, “then I will kill you with my heathen spells…” She was not exactly sure how the words came to her. Perhaps it was seeing her real name, written on paper. Perhaps it was the thought of her precious scarf tainted now by the Abbess’ inked repugnance. Perhaps it was all the rest that she wished she had never read. She was angry.

Cecille was startled, her voice trembling slightly. “You just say that…” she intoned.

“I mean it,” Pinchar insisted. “I will curse you to die alone on a night as dark as this!”

“You lie!” the girl exclaimed, no longer whispering. “Devil’s Spawn!” she screamed falling onto her knees her entire frame suddenly shaking from tears that neither Pinchar nor Rato could ever have anticipated. “Sisters, oh Sisters! Help!” she wailed. The corridor immediately filled with people. They raised her from the floor almost fainting. Between her sobs, she swore that she had been attacked by the Heathen, who was possessed by the Devil. That the Heathen had enchanted Rato so that he would do her bidding.

Pinchar was pushed into a small cell with a cold stone floor, and a bare hay mattress. Rato was taken too. Perhaps they locked him in a similar cell, although there were rumors that sometimes they locked boys in the cellars under the refectory. She was barefoot and wearing nothing but her long shirt, her flimsy silk scarf safely kept in her pocket. She crouched in a corner on the mattress, the cold penetrating her bones. It made her entire body hurt. She closed her eyes and thought of the warm summer nights in Paris, of the grand houses with the large open windows, of the music, the laughter, and the wafting fragrances she had no names for. What would it be like, to live in these halls she asked herself, and her imagination soared filling her with hope. Perhaps someone will come with some clothes or a blanket, she told herself. But nobody came.

She counted one day, then two. Only water, and some bread were slipped under the door in silence. “Sister Inéz!” she cried, “can I please have some clothes! A blanket, please!” But if that was Sister Inéz she never answered. On the third day the door finally opened, and Sister Léonie walked into the cell followed by a novice carrying a bench. The Sister arrived with a change of clothes. She threw them onto the mattress, and waited for Pinchar to dress. The girl welcomed the warmth of her old threadbare tunic, and the white cap on her head. She had never been this cold before.

The door opened again, and the Abbess walked in. She looked stern but calm, indifferent almost. “Is she ready?” she asked Sister Léonie, who nodded in affirmation.

“We did nothing!” Pinchar exclaimed. All this silence was terrifying. “Where is Rato?”

The Abbess ignored her as if she were not present. She motioned to Sister Léonie, who grabbed Pinchar’s hands, dragged her to the bench, and laid her face down upon it.

“After witnessing Our Lord’s Resurrection these past two days, we now return to our duty stronger,” the Abbess declared fervently. “When the Devil attacks us Sisters,” she continued, addressing Sister Léonie, and the novice, “we fight back until its filth is subdued, and expelled. We do not speak to it. We do not acknowledge it. We conquer it with God’s power and wrath.” She pulled a whip from under her scapular only this one was thicker than the one she usually carried, its edges knotted. Pinchar closed her eyes. All she could think of was Rato. Please God, she prayed, do not let him be flogged!

“Pinchar! Wake up!” She did not know how long she had been asleep, or if that was sleep. But she was certain she was not dreaming. Rato was kneeling next to her on the mattress. “Did they hurt you?” he asked. He sounded angry and worried. He shouldn’t be. She was used to this kind of pain. It was nothing to her. She could think it away. She tried to tell him but he refused to listen.

“How did you come here?” she asked.

“I kept your hairpin,” he winked, and she tried to smile. “Can you walk? We are leaving now!” he whispered. She motioned that she could although the moment she stood up she felt pain burning all the way down her back, her legs, and feet. She felt blood dripping slowly down her back. She took a deep breath and thought only of escaping. They walked carefully down the corridor, past the refectory where the orphans were eating their meager dinner, and then behind the empty barn, and through the cemetery to the small wilderness, reaching the old wall. Only this time they were not alone. From somewhere close by they could hear dogs barking.

“Climb Pinchar!” Rato yelled. He climbed onto the stones, and pulled her up by her arms. She felt piercing pain but did not surrender to it. She grabbed Rato’s hands too, and kept climbing the stone wall. The dogs were right below her feet now. She could feel the heat of their breath as they frantically jumped, their jaws snapping. She closed her eyes, and gave one desperate push ignoring the pain. “We did it, Pinchar!” she heard Rato’s voice exclaiming triumphantly.

He seized her hand, and they ran as fast as they could towards the road. A cart, a wagon, they both thought, to take us anywhere! But the road was empty. “We must get as far from this place as possible!” Rato urged her on. From somewhere in the direction of the orphanage they could hear galloping horses. “Run, Pinchar!” Rato begged. Could he see that she was losing strength? She refused to think about it. She just pressed on as the horses approached. And then she collapsed.

“Well, well, well, what have we got here!” exclaimed one of the riders. He laughed, and under his large hat, Pinchar could clearly see a set of simmering gold teeth. He pulled the reins of his horse, making a sign to his fellow rider, the silent man who never spoke, called Rouge, to stop too. “Well, Rouge if this isn’t that little bitch and her brother who stole our money some while ago in that filthy tavern…” He dismounted pulling a dagger from his belt.

“Don’t you dare touch her!” Rato yelled, standing with just his fists against the armed man.

“Or what?” the man sneered. “You have some nerve, boy…”

Pinchar understood immediately  what Rato was planning to do. “No, Rato!” she cried. “Don’t!” She knew her cries would make no difference, as she also knew what she had to do to help him. Rato darted towards the man, reaching for both his hands, the one holding the dagger, and the other that was prepared to pull a pistol. She pulled herself up and did the same. The man did not expect an attack, nor to be overcome by two desperate children.

Rato bit the man with the gold teeth on the neck, and Pinchar grabbed his dagger slashing his ear. The man howled in pain trying to disentangle himself from them. “Rouge!” he yelled to his companion. “What the hell…! Shoot them!” There was a second man, Pinchar suddenly remembered. Silent, but even stronger, and armed. And then she saw it, the simmering barrel of a pistol in the hand of Rouge aiming directly at her from his horse. She heard the gunshot, saw the bullet…

“No!” Rato yelled, throwing himself in its way. She screamed his name…

“You little bitch!” the man with the gold teeth growled, his foul breath on her face. “You cut my ear!” He grabbed her from the waist, and threw her onto the graveled road, her head hitting the stones.

****  
She woke up to the song of birds. An open window, a white curtain wafting in the breeze, the air fragrant with the smell of roses, and freshly cut grass. Outside, somewhere in the distance, children were playing by the trickling waters of a spring. The room was small, and simple but clean and neat: two chairs, a chest, a table. She tried to sit up but pain pierced through her head spreading to her back, and almost blinded her. She reached for her head. It was bandaged.

“Oh goodness, no!” A woman entered the room holding a basin, and linen towels. “Dearest girl you cannot sit up!”

The lady sat at the side of the bed smiling. She was young and beautiful. Pinchar had never seen eyes this blue, or skin this perfect. She wore a laced cap but underneath it her blonde hair fell in thick tresses framing her long neck. Her dress was simple, dark blue, her sleeves elegantly adorned with white lace. She spoke softly, and her voice sounded like sweet music. “You are in St. Martin. It’s a small village outside Creteuil,” she said. “Bernard found you on the road to Arcueil a week ago…”

Pinchar closed her eyes. Images flooded back. She suddenly remembered it all. Rato, she thought, and her heart almost stopped, Rato is dead. Because of me… She wished she could cry. But she found no tears.

“You were all alone in the middle of that road,” the lady continued, “and badly injured. Who could do this to you?”

Pinchar decided to say nothing. What could she possibly say to this stranger no matter how kind and well-meaning she appeared to be? Besides, now that Rato was dead nothing mattered. She raised her hands slowly reaching for her bandaged head. It throbbed in pain, and felt strange somehow.

“We had to shave your head,” the lady continued softly. “To clean your wound better… I am very sorry about your beautiful hair. But your back is healing well. There may be some scars but with time they will fade. Oh! we found this!” she added, showing her the silk scarf neatly folded on the table next to her bed. “It is a beautiful scarf! I had it cleaned.”

Pinchar tried to smile. Her scarf had survived. She did not care about her back being scarred. As for her hair: she had no use for it. In fact, she hated it: her black, ugly, unruly hair.

“Will you tell me your name?” the lady asked in her melodious voice. “I am Madame de la Rocque, but all my friends call me Ninon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Translation:  
> "There was once a young girl  
> Of noble heart  
> Pleasant and pretty  
> Of great merit  
> Against her will she was made a nun  
> This does not please her at all  
> So she lives in great pain."


	59. The Letters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Letters are received revealing startling news from beloved friends far away and letters are sent to children awaiting news of a lost sister and a mother of her son. Lucien reflects on the events of the night before as he waits what he knows is coming next...

He opened his eyes slowly, painfully aware of every movement. It was barely dawn, the room still dark. Sophia lay asleep next to him on top of the bed covers. She clutched a cloth in her hand, the basin of cool water on the table next to the bed.

He swung his feet carefully to the floor and tested his strength to stand. His legs trembled slightly but held him upright. A sound from the other side of the room. Yusuf was putting another log on the fire. A deep chair was angled in front of it, a steaming cup set on a low table.

‘Can you walk?’ the servant asked softly. He did not want to wake his mistress. Neither of them had slept during the long night tending to the fever that had gripped Lucien.

He moved slowly to the chair and slipped his arms into the long heavy tunic Yusuf held for him. He sat gratefully.

‘Getting too old for this,’ he joked to Yusuf. The servant smiled, ‘I heard the Musketeer was better with the pistol.’

Lucien snorted wryly, ‘I guess I was lucky then,’ and settled into the chair with a low groan. There was a letter on the table. He picked it up and turned it over to look at the seal. It was from Anne.

He broke the seal and unfolded the thick parchment. He began to read as he lifted the steaming cup to take a drink. His hand froze halfway to his mouth as his eyes traveled swiftly over the elegant script. He set the cup down, a deep frown furrowing his brow. His hand holding the letter fell to his lap. He leaned back and closed his eyes, his face etched with sadness.

>>

" _…I write to deliver news as to the progress of our search for your dear sister. It has been disclosed to Papa that she was delivered to an orphanage some distance from the city where she was placed under the supervision of the Abbess…we have reason to fear she may not live…"_

Sophia looked up from the letter to their daughter that she was reading aloud to her husband. He was sitting up in their bed, supported by several pillows, a heavy tunic around his shoulders, his chest bare, except for the bandage that was wrapped around his torso. He was drinking the sweet thick bitter brew that Yusuf prepared for him and staring out the window.

Wood crackled noisily as it burned hot in the fireplace. It was early morning, the thin rays of the sun lightening the room but providing little warmth. She looked back at the letter she was composing to their eldest daughter and continued to read it to him.

_"...I await your arrival in Paris with joy. Duchess Aiguillon's kind arrangements for a visit to the new art academy and a private meeting with M Poussin is a true testament of the compassionate character of our new friend. M Duget was a student of M Poussin and will help choose your work to show him.  
Please tell us news of Rascal in your next letter – you will know how your Papa misses singing with him…"_

Lucien leaned back against a pile of pillows, one knee bent, the other leg extended and stared out the window. Frost glittered on the glass in the weak early sunlight. He shifted his weight, stretching his other leg. His body ached from the stab wound and the fever that had followed. His dreams had been restless and agitated, fractured images of children and clashing sounds of men fighting. He had awakened several times in the night as Sophia held wet cool cloths to his face and body and Yusuf held a cup for him to drink. He was tired, but his mind was busy with the business of the night before.

_‘"...only you prefer to burn children alive…"_

It wasn’t a provocation. The Musketeer had been there. But why had the man accused him? Had he escaped while others screamed in a horrible death? Was he a survivor or had a loved one been a victim?

_"...I told you I would be the one to kill you...’_

Why had the Musketeer not sought him sooner? Why no challenge? Instead, he had waited for a random opportunity to fight him. The Musketeer was small but used his size to good advantage – quick, agile, good at spotting and seizing opportunities. But, one on one – the young man would not have been a match for him. Perhaps he had judged his opponent correctly and waited for his chance. Then the Musketeer was also smart – and patient. Patience in fighting enemies was not an easy skill to teach young men – the frantic chaos of battle could overwhelm the most sagacious of soldiers. But this Musketeer’s persistence had been rewarded – last night he almost had his revenge. Lucien smiled to himself – he had to acknowledge the soldier’s skills – even if employed for a wrong reason.

Suddenly he realized his wife’s voice had stopped. He looked quickly toward her. She was watching him.

‘I most certainly want news of Rascal,’ he stated firmly setting the cup on the table beside the bed, ‘do they sing with him or does he pine away for his master’s accompaniment?’ She smiled and put the letter down and studied him for a moment. She picked a thread from her skirt.

‘You haven’t said why you accosted the officer and the Musketeer,’ she said carefully. She folded her hands in her lap and waited. He frowned.

‘I must account to you?’ he said testily. She rose from the chair and walked to the bed, sitting down beside him and took his hand. ‘I’m not interrogating you.’ He grunted and looked away, furrowing his brow deeper. She waited patiently.

‘I went with the intent of talking, of knowing his account of himself,’ he said finally. ‘But it did not proceed that way.’

‘They thought we were thieves and then the Musketeer recognized me, and the officer accused me of murdering her – swords crossed.’ He paused, remembering the look on the Musketeer’s face– surprise at his recognition and instant fury. The Musketeer had wanted to kill him.

‘Then I recognized the sword…and him – Athos’ bastard.’ He spat out the word, his temper flaring at the memory of his old enemy. 'He is the very image of his father.'

‘We knew a son of Athos was an aide to Porthos. You didn’t consider he might be Anne’s son too?’

‘You know what Athos did to Anne – how I found her! He disposes of wives without conscience!’ He swung his feet to the floor and stood staring down at her angrily, ‘how would I know all his bastard sons and daughters!’ He stalked to the window fury rolling off him in thunderous waves. He swung back to her.

‘How do I know his bastard didn’t treat a young girl the same as his father!’ he demanded. ‘She was careless with her teasing – he could easily have lost his head in a fit of jealousy and strangled her.’ He gave a short angry laugh, ‘that would have been just like Athos!’ he gestured angrily, ‘they hide him in the garrison! You really think they want the truth?’

‘And yet, it is Anne’s son that might have died by your sword,’ she said calmly to bring him back to his reason. ‘His father does not signify in this Lucien,’ she said softly.

He breathed in to control his temper and looked back out the window. He closed his eyes, ‘yes – I almost killed Anne’s son.’ They both fell silent.

‘Constance thought him of good character,’ she said, and before he could interject, she added quickly, ‘you know Anne raised him alone. Athos had no hand in it.’

‘Athos is typical of his kind – arrogant about noble privilege….’ Lucien fumed.

‘Did the young man appear arrogant?’ she asked. Lucien hesitated. He saw the young man as he had been in front of hm, offering his purse thinking they were thieves then the Musketeer saying his name.

‘He appeared overwrought,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘He fought with great emotion and lost control too easily.’

‘We do not know your father,’ she said. A small smile appeared as she said, ‘perhaps he was a great nobleman who imparted his brilliance and ease of command to you.’

‘It does not matter who was my father,’ he said abruptly.

‘No,’ she agreed, ‘nor does it matter who is Raoul’s father. It is Anne we love.’

Silence fell again between them. Sophia waited and watched him struggle against old memories of past grievances and the news he had learned in the early morning hours. Sadness filled his eyes, ‘she cannot be dying,’ he whispered. Sophia walked to him, wrapping her arms carefully around him and laying her head against him.

‘Write to her. Put her mind at ease,’ she said softly. ‘She trusts only you Lucien.’ He nodded.

‘D’Artagnan will want to question you,’ Sophia said, ‘he won’t let it go.’

‘It is an opportunity for him to accuse me of something,’ he said. He gave a short laugh, ‘it will be worth the aggravation to hear the stories they invent about me.’ He felt her smile.

‘When they come, we should have Yusuf present,’ she said. He was puzzled.

‘I will not allow you to be arrested,’ she said. Lucien stroked her cheek, ‘it will not come to that.’

She gazed steadily at him and he nodded, ‘yes, Yusuf should be present.’

She nodded and touched his wound, ‘this needs to be cleaned again and re-dressed.’ She picked up a glass from the bedside table.

‘You cannot drink brandy all day,’ she said, ‘My physician recommends it!’ he took the glass from her and drained it. She looked disapproving.

‘Since you make an issue, I shall go and verify his recommendation,’ he kissed her cheek and went in search of Yusuf.

He found him in Sophia’s workroom, straightening the vials, packets, small bowls and assorted instruments on the shelves, making notes. A low fire burned in the fireplace. He looked up as Lucien came through the door, ushering his master to sit on the tall work table. He pulled open Lucien’s tunic and probed the wound. Lucien winced.

‘I will clean and re-dress it.'

‘Last night,’ Lucien started, ‘the Musketeer said something – accused me of a killing.’ Yusuf looked up from stirring the thick poultice.

‘Have you heard a story – of children being burned alive?’ Yusuf bent over his work and frowned, ‘a story about you?’

‘Yes’

‘There are many stories about you.’

‘Yes, but this one in particular – have you heard this one.’

‘It is…unpleasant. I do not think so – but I have heard stories. What interests you?’ Yusuf asked as he finished cleaning the wound and began to pack the poultice.

'Is it the story or the storyteller?

Lucien frowned and considered. ‘Both.’ Yusuf finished wrapping a clean bandage around Lucien’s torso tying it tightly. Lucien slipped his arm into the sleeve of his long tunic and tied the belt.

‘I know nothing of the storyteller, except that he was not killed last night,’ said Yusuf, leaning back against the shelves regarding his master, ‘why is that?’

Lucien looked away. He had fought in more battles than could be counted – on ships in heaving seas and land when storms raged, in the dark or light - bad conditions and worse odds. Last night he had known where he was and what he was doing - driving his opponents exactly as he wanted – and then – time seemed to stop, events slowed, sounds became muted and slurred. Voices of those not present screamed in his mind, he lost track of the Musketeer and knew it did not matter to him.

Why had he shouted for the mercenary to not kill him?

‘I do not know,’ he said truthfully. He looked back into Yusuf’s dark penetrating eyes, ‘I do not know,’ he repeated. The two men were silent. Yusuf spoke first.

‘The story does not sound like you.’

Lucien pursed his lips thoughtfully. He smiled, ‘you will tell Sophia you have recommended brandy to me?’ Yusuf smiled

‘It is your favorite medicine.’  
>>

_"...If this is the last time we speak, please know that I have loved and trusted no one more than you, …"_

Lucien closed his eyes and dropped his hand holding the letter to his lap. He stared into the fire. He felt a surge of fury that cried out for action – he wanted to leap onto his horse and race to Bragelonne. He looked again at the letter. That was not what she was asking of him.

_"…I must ask you one final favor, love: to make sure he is kept safe and well…. I trust no one but you..."_

She was asking him to protect her son. The son he had accused of murder and almost killed. He could not change the past, but he could change what might yet occur. He drew the candelabra closer, picked up the quill and dipped it into the ink pot and began to write -

_"My dearest sister,_

_"Your letter filled me with such sorrow. I can only pray that you are out of danger. If you need me dearest – I will ride immediately._

_I must apprise you of recent events. I fear I become blinded with old vestiges of rage that can still flare into deadly actions and I am unable to stop these effects on those I love so dearly._

_Your letter reached me a day following an almost fatal attack on a man I believed him to have committed a senseless murder of young girl – an act I believed to be out of jealous rage. I challenged him to account for himself and he declared his innocence. But swords crossed and I recognized both the sword and then the face. And the deed would have been done but for Flea’s intervention thereby preventing an act, by my hand, that would destroy us both.  
_

_It grieves me to cause you to suffer the pain as to how events came together, and I will tell you everything."_

_"More important is what I say here: I do not know if he is guilty of this violence. It might have been the rash act of a young man. The girl was very young, beautiful and beguiling. She was also careless as young women can be in teasing her lovers. It would be easy for a young man experiencing a first love to become overwrought with jealousy and in an argument to abandon reason. An investigation is underway, but regardless if facts or only circumstance point in his direction, I vow this to you._

_My dear Anne - I will stand in his place. You alone know that I can accomplish this and for many reasons it would be a just and right outcome."_

_"..;Now, what you must know is that I believed this young woman to be my daughter - a child that was born to Sophia 16 years ago…"_

He wrote steadily and told her everything – the empty coffin, Sister Agatha’s letter and record of birth, searching Paris, the foundling homes, Bicetre and finally – the theatre in the Marais and her lifeless body left on a cold and desolate riverbank – tossed away as the rest of the garbage that accumulated there. He left nothing out – Treville’s lies to Sophia and their belief that Athos had known.

He stopped and sat back exhausted by the effort. The fire burned low and beyond the circle of light created by the candle on his desk, the room was in deep shadow. He shivered and pulled his cloak around his shoulders. He didn’t know if he shook from cold or the bone deep exhaustion he felt - so far from the day he had stared into an empty coffin.

_"…None of what I have written justifies my actions and so I will not ask for your forgiveness. Raoul is within the garrison. Be assured that your son has the esteem of many friends, no doubt deservedly so and the favor of the King as well. Regardless, I commit my sword to your son Anne.''_

_"A new problem has arisen that will undoubtedly take me from Paris to Marseille. Sophia remains here to await our eldest daughter. It is my hope that our separation will be brief. She suffers terribly at the sad outcome for our child and Treville’s betrayal. How I wish to see the loving kindness in your beautiful eyes and hear your voice. If you need me, I will come to you. Rest easy dear sister – your son is safe..."_

_Your loving and faithful servant forever–  
Lucien_


	60. The Interrogation

**Author: Mordaunt**

 

 _I made me witness my being there_  
_for I was he;_  
_I witnessed him as me,_  
_the light, my splendor..._

 _(`Umar ibn `Alī ibn al-Fārid, 1181 – 1234,  
_ _from The Poem of the Sufi Way, transl. by Th. Emil Homerin)_

It is one of the large Parisian houses at the Marais, the broadness of its façade interrupted by carved pilasters and pediments, the main door framed by fluted columns. The sort of house de Thierry remembers from his childhood in Paris, when, on hot summer nights, open windows would reveal glimpses of a world he could only imagine: of music, laughter, and fragrances for which he had no names.

It stands coated in the glistening snow of early morning, curtains closed everywhere except a large window that overlooks the garden, and the gate from which they entered. De Thierry and M. Marchal walk in silence, crushing the fresh snow underneath their feet. It is a neat garden, the box hedges and lilac trees now covered with snow, the branches of the large chestnut trees hanging low from its weight, shedding silvery snowflakes with every passing breath of wind.

“He has done well for himself,” M. Marchal observes.

“You know the man then?” M. de Thierry interjects.

“Yes. All of us raised at the Court of Miracles knew him at one point or other. My father despised him…”

“Your father was a discerning man…”

“No, no! You don’t understand. My father was anything but discerning. A vulgar brute if ever there was one. I fear I may disappoint you in this, M. de Thierry. You see, M. Grimaud refused to do business with my father for good reasons.”

“Good reasons?” de Thierry snorts. Those two words are not what he associates with the man he is about to interrogate.

“Permit me to have a different view of the man, M. de Thierry,” M. Marchal retorts quietly. “I understand he has committed many crimes but I respect him…”

“Respect!” de Thierry stops. “Respect? We are going into this house to interrogate the man who attacked us without any provocation. Attacked to kill. The man who may have murdered an innocent woman. The man who probably committed treason against their Majesties! The man who killed Captain de Treville!”

M. Marchal lowers his gaze. “Forgive me, M. de Thierry,” he says. “I do not disagree with you. I simply want you to know where I stand. You see, I am the bastard son of a blacksmith, who pretended to sell chains and locks to the Bastille, but made his livelihood forging the chains they use on ships that carry slaves. He was a despicable man, rotten to the core. M. Grimaud refused to do any business with him, and his kind. It destroyed my father in the end, and I for one, owe M. Grimaud that…”

M. de Thierry looks puzzled. He knew a blacksmith once who sold chains to the Bastille. He used to run errands for him with Rato. “Thank you M. Marchal, for your honesty” he says. “It is good to know. Perhaps you’ll let me ask the questions then…”

“Yes,” M. Marchal agrees. “I would rather you did that. Besides, you are my superior officer.”

They are led into a spacious hall, a double marble staircase leading to the first floor. “Follow me,” the servant says. He looks foreign. A Turk perhaps. They pass through a long gallery adorned with portraits of lords and ladies from different eras. “My mistress’ ancestors,” the servant explains observing de Thierry’s interest. “She comes from an ancient family.” They walk past closed doors of rooms looking to the front of the house. One door is slightly ajar. De Thierry has the fleeting image of an open harpsichord, sheets of music spread on a chair, and a woman’s cloak thrown on its back. Perhaps the lady of the house loves music, he thinks. Still he finds it all confounding: the opulence, the ease, the idle serenity. He does not know what he expected Lucien Grimaud’s house to be like, but he knows he did not expect this.

The room they enter is a man’s room. Oak paneled walls decorated with carved pilasters frame a fireplace where a fire burns, the crackling wood filling the air with the fragrance of fir and something else, elusive and bitter like citrus. A fragrance de Thierry has no name for. A large painting of a woman in a blue dress hangs over the fireplace. She is portrayed standing next to a table covered with bottles and vials, with an open book in her hands. Behind her, in the distance, there is a large estate, and a hunting scene: dogs circling a boar, and a large hawk flying low in the sky. M. Marchal stands before the painting mesmerized. She does not look like any woman he has ever encountered. Could this be the Duchess? The lady of this house?

The dark wood floor is covered with thick rugs, and the curtains are drawn back, the sunlight flooding into the room. The windows offer a view to the gate from where they entered and the garden below. Perhaps he observed us from up here, de Thierry thinks. He feels that he is being watched but dismisses it.

On the other side of the room, thick leather-bound volumes fill bookshelves rising to the coffered ceiling. Interspersed among their gold-pressed spines, de Thierry notices small parchments with sketches, glimpses of a life that feels entirely out of place. Their delicate lines are drawn by a confident hand, and all of them are signed in elegant cursive: “from Suzanne to Papa:”  A vase with roses in front of an open window, two girls walking along a country road shaded by oak trees their faces turned away from the viewer, the portrait of a smiling little boy resting his head on his hand, the sketch of a frog with the inscription “Samy’s new friend.” Although it is placed much higher than all the other sketches, it stands out: it is the only sketch with traces of color, pale yellow among its black feathers. The drawing of a goldfinch. “Our beloved Rascal, because you miss him so!” the inscription explains.

A large desk covered with maps stands before the bookshelves: many maps, some scrolled, others left open, and one of them familiar. De Thierry has traced a map exactly like this, with fingers that belonged to a girl, a girl now dead and buried. He cannot resist the temptation to pick it up with his gloved Musketeer hand. Madame Ninon’s voice echoes from another life:

> _“The city the Turks say commands on one side the earth, and on two sides the sea.”_

They walked this great city together during the cold winter nights at St. Martin, Madame Ninon and the dead girl, a map like this spread on the floor in the glow of the fireplace. “Where is the Seraglio?” the lady would ask. De Thierry reads the map again, and each name feels like a missed old friend: Blachernae, Phanar, the Church of God’s Wisdom, the Galata tower, the Pera… Handwritten notes on the map, mark points along the Golden Horn, both on the side of the Bosporus and along the Sea of Marmara, and others, further away, on the Princes’ Islands. Is this the handwriting of Lucien Grimaud, he wonders?

“That’s Constantinople!” A man’s voice, breaks the silence in the room. He sounds entertained. “Would you like to travel there?” They were indeed being watched.

Lucien Grimaud rests in a comfortable armchair by the fire, obscured by the sunlight that floods into the room from the window. De Thierry’s eyes adjust slowly to the blinding light. The man wears a dark green damask robe, opened to the chest, where a bandage is visible, and dark blue pantaloons, his feet adorned with gold-trimmed Turkish slippers. He reminds de Thierry of the warrior on his old silk scarf. Only less heroic.

The young Musketeer straightens himself up immediately. It was a mistake to show interest, he thinks. But he has no intention now to appear embarrassed. “Yes, I would like to travel there,” he declares bluntly. “Why shouldn’t I?” He cannot see the man’s face, obscured as it is by the light, but it feels as if there is a smile. Perhaps he scoffs at them. Thinks them both ignorant brutes with little knowledge of the world. “We are here about the murder of Mademoiselle Cecille du Pouget, an actress from the Marais Theater. We have some questions for you, Monsieur,” de Thierry continues, his tone businesslike.  

“How is your other friend?” the man quips. “Damaged as he deserves?”

He is playing with us, de Thierry thinks. Like a cat plays with mice. He is not willing to give the man the satisfaction. “Not more than you, Monsieur,” he replies, his tone dry. “You seem damaged enough. I am not sure if it is as much as you deserve.”

“Very good,” the man observes. “You can parry with words as well as with blades. You are the clever one, indeed. It must be why your great Captain sends you here. Or perhaps… he wants to insult me with your presence in my home. But then he sends M. Marchal along. Such a thoughtful gesture. An old friend. How are you Fabien?” he adds mockingly, “that pauldron looks odd on you…”

“M. Grimaud,” M. Marchal interjects quietly. “We need information about Mademoiselle du Pouget. That is all…”

“I suggest you ask your friend first,” Grimaud replies his tone sarcastic. “The one hiding in your Garrison.”  

“The manner in which we conduct this investigation seems to concern you, Monsieur,” de Thierry retorts, now assuming a tone at once mocking and patronizing. “But it should not. Your role in this crime however, should concern you greatly. Did you visit Mademoiselle du Pouget at the Marais Theater on the third night of December?”

“He shall answer none of your questions,” a woman’s voice interrupts. She is standing at the door, dressed in pale green silk, her clear blue eyes full of fire. She is followed by the Turk who let them into the house. She is the woman of the painting, in the flesh. De Thierry realizes he has seen this lady before. She was arguing with fish-stink Pascal at the gate of St. Honoré, and distracted the old fool long enough for them to escape with the Prime Minister. He had bowed to her on the way out of the city, and she gave him an angry look, not dissimilar to the one in her eyes now…

Exquisite eyes, M. Marchal reckons. He has never seen eyes more beautiful nor face more luminous. Lucky bastard this Grimaud, he thinks. How could such a woman ever consider the likes of him…

“Ah,” Grimaud exclaims. “My dear, let me introduce our guests, sent by your dear friend, Captain d’ Artagnan. This is M. Marchal, an old friend from the Court of Miracles, who has lost his way… and this is…” he cannot suppress a chuckle, “why goodness, I believe we were never introduced. How uncivil… But whoever he is, he can stab like a cut-throat from the street.” He grimaces feigning disgust. “Not very noble for a Musketeer…”

“I am M. de Thierry, Your Grace,” the young Musketeer says, turning his back to Grimaud, and ignoring his provocation. He removes his hat, and bows to the Duchess, who barely acknowledges him.

“Why are you here?” she asks, her manner imperious, and her tone full of contempt. She walks into the room brushing past de Thierry, and completely ignores M. Marchal, who looks however, entirely enthralled. Her servant follows her into the room, and stands with his arms folded behind the armchair of her husband, his master. 

“A young actress was found murdered at the wharf close to some of your husband’s warehouses at the Port de la Tournelle, Madame,” de Thierry retorts, pretending not to notice the lady’s disdain. It is to be expected, he thinks. Great lords and ladies of her rank do not have to answer anyone’s questions. It must be odd to find herself in this position. But then again, she married this man…

“And how does this concern us?” she shrugs, taking a seat at a settee across her husband.

“Your husband has been at the victim’s performances. He visited her privately. There are witnesses. We need to know…” 

“You shall know nothing!” the lady interrupts him with contempt. “Captain d’ Artagnan ought to teach you manners, and the rules of propriety Monsieur. In this house, I decide what you may or may not know. If your Captain has a different opinion on the matter, he should request an audience…” She turns her blue gaze towards her husband. There is haughtiness, and anger in her gaze but there is also something else, de Thierry realizes: the tenderness of protection.  

M. Marchal looks inquisitively at M. de Thierry. He fears the Captain’s scheme to provoke a reaction from Lucien Grimaud has provoked an altogether different reaction from his wife. He fears that de Thierry may be too eager, too brash for this assignment.

“We will convey your message to our Captain, Your Grace,” M. de Thierry retorts with unusual equanimity. “But we are not here to ask Your Grace any questions. We are here to ask questions of your husband, and that is not the same thing.” M. Marchal is astonished. He never expected M. de Thierry to be collected or dispassionate. Perhaps he had misjudged the man.

“My dear,” Grimaud interjects addressing his wife. “Monsieur… what was it? De Thierry? An interesting assumed name, you will agree, my dear. Well, he is the clever one! He is also sent here by his Captain to find a scapegoat. And I am notorious,” he scoffs, and the lady smiles with disdain. “It is all in bad taste,” she comments.  

M. Marchal feels the offense against his Captain’s honor deeply. Under any other circumstances, at any other place, he would have drawn his sword and demand satisfaction, and so would M. de Thierry. He watches with uneasiness, as M. de Thierry walks to the darkest part of the room, closer to Lucien Grimaud, and out of the blinding light pouring in from the window. “I would think M. Grimaud,” de Thierry says calmly, “that an innocent man, no matter how notorious, would be eager to assist solving this crime, and would be concerned about clearing his name…”

“An excellent observation, M. Musketeer,” Grimaud retorts. He pushes himself higher on his chair, as if the conversation has suddenly excited his interest. “How do you propose to clear my name? I am touched by your Captain’s sudden concern about my well-being…”

“M. Grimaud,” de Thierry says, a mocking glimmer in his eyes, “these are the facts: you had your people watching the Marais Theater before Mademoiselle du Pouget’s first performance. You attended that performance at least once. You visited her in her rooms privately…”

“You are grasping at straws…” Grimaud interrupts him. A glance from his wife stops him mid-sentence. It is clear she does not care to hear about this affair.

“Her body was discovered close to your warehouses,” de Thierry continues ignoring the interruption, and the lady’s dismay, “and on that very night you followed me and M. Bragelonne, and tried to kill him.”

“An unfortunate failure on my part, I cannot deny it” Grimaud exclaims leaning back in his armchair with a chuckle. “But you know all about that. You were there. You almost stabbed me in the back.”

The slander is well calculated. Musketeers do not stab or shoot people in the back; not even the likes of Lucien Grimaud. It is dishonorable. It is below contempt. M. de Thierry feels the urge to draw his sword, and demand satisfaction keenly, but he considers the place and the lady, whose cold disdain affects him in a manner most unexpected. She thinks him a crude, vulgar soldier with no understanding of rank or propriety. Her husband too, this murderous fiend, treats him like a mindless pawn, some ignorant, wide-eyed fool, who cannot think beyond the Musketeer pauldron. M. de Thierry is determined to prove them both wrong, this criminal and his lady wife, and it angers him that their opinions feel suddenly important.  

“Do you own a black carriage, Monsieur?” he insists, suppressing his anger, and ignoring Grimaud’s provocation one more time. He notices it immediately in the man’s eyes, which he is now finally able to see: the question was unexpected.

“No,” Grimaud replies.

“So, if we search your properties, we will not find one?”

“I do not own a black carriage,” Grimaud reiterates, speaking carefully now, and very clearly.

“Thank you, M. Grimaud,” de Thierry says bowing. “That is all we wanted to know.”

“I have a question for you, M. Musketeer,” Grimaud replies in the same quiet manner. “Why did you protect de Bragelonne? He is not a Musketeer.  There are no vows of honor to bind you. What was it? I am intrigued. A misplaced sense of loyalty to his decrepit father? Are you one of his bastards, perhaps?”

M. Marchal places his hand firmly on the hilt of his sword. He can see de Thierry struggling to maintain his composure as he speaks, his voice slightly unsteady. “I apologize Your Grace, for detaining you this morning,” he says addressing the lady who sits still, almost not breathing. “We shall convey your message to our Captain. As for your question M. Grimaud,” he adds, as if it is an afterthought, “do not presume to know or understand me. A man such as you never could.”

He bows to the lady, and motions to M. Marchal that this interrogation is over.  “We can find our way out,” he says, opening the door.

 

 


	61. Courage and Curiosity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucien mulls over the interrogation by the Musketeers and looks for answers to a cruel charge made against him... he meets a gypsy with a puzzling prediction...

He stood by the window watching the two Musketeers cross the park and pass through the gate. Snow was starting to fall again, the sky darkening to an iron gray. The gardeners were finishing their work and bundling up their tools, pulling their coats around them and their caps down to cover their ears. They walked toward the side of the house and disappeared from view. He stared out at the empty park, pondering the meeting that had just occurred.

‘Why did you let them in?’ said his irritated wife. She was not sitting still – it had been something of a minor miracle that she had managed to sit still throughout the questions fired at him from the young Musketeer. They may have thought she sat impassive and haughty – only he would have judged her stillness accurately. They had both been aware of the challenges issued and watched the hands of the two Musketeers twitch toward the hilts of their swords. But only he would know that her stillness could explode into deadly action. He, Athos and the men she had killed.

He walked slowly to his desk and looked down at the maps that covered its surface. He ran his finger over the map the Musketeer had lifted and studied so intently. It seemed familiar to the man.

‘Is that not the map de Roberval sent to you?’ she asked. He nodded. She waited, watching him intently.

‘The Musketeer recognized it,’ he said tracing the notations made by the man who had sent the map to him. ‘Where would that Musketeer see maps of Constantinople?’ she asked scornfully.

‘Why did you let them in? Why not talk to them at the door?

He looked up from the map and watched her pace restlessly across the width of the fireplace. She stopped, hands on hips and turned to him.

‘Why did you not tell them of our carriage?’

‘I want them to come back to me,’ he said. ‘Their evidence against me is weak. Too many men visited her, went to her performances, gave her gifts. I never gave her gifts.’

‘Friquet was watching her,’ she countered. He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Not enough – he’s hardly a hired thug.’

‘But the carriage….’

‘Once they look at our carriage, they will know it isn’t the one they are looking for – not with that great ducal crest on it.’

‘Lucien!’ she said impatiently, ‘we can end this! Once we tell them that I sent you to her…’

‘They are investigating Sophia,’ he interrupted her, ‘I want to know what they know. I want to know who owns that carriage.’

>  
He sprawled the length of the sofa, balancing a glass of brandy on his chest, one arm bent, his hand behind his head. The room was in darkness, the only light coming from the fireplace. He stared into the flames.

The door opened quietly, and she crossed the room to him. She sank down beside the sofa and lifted the glass from him and took a small drink. He watched her from hooded eyes. Her hair was down, her nightdress covered with a large shawl.

‘You are curious about him,’ she said. ‘That is why you let them in.’

‘He stabbed me,’ he smiled. ‘I’m always curious about someone who gets that close.’

‘You were distracted,’ she dismissed the notion that skill had anything to do with his injury. ‘He would never have gotten the better of you.’ Lucien’s smile widened. He lifted his hand and brushed her hair from her shoulder.

‘Your faith in me sustains me my love.’

‘It is my love that should sustain you.’

‘That too,’ and he reached for her, lifting her from the floor to lie beside him, his shoulder pillowing her head, his hand stroking her arm. Her hand slipped into the opening of his tunic to his trace a random design on his smooth marbled chest. His skin was warm to her touch.

‘What made you curious about him?’ she asked again. He rolled his head side to side, ‘I couldn’t say,’ he confessed.

‘He was a curious young man,’ she said with a mysterious smile.

‘By now, Constance may have told D’Artagnan everything,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how she could do otherwise.’

‘Everything?’ he asked. She smiled, ‘well – perhaps not the source of the grain. She may let him believe it came from the Daughters of Charity.’ He smiled too, ‘that would be wise of her.’

‘So, he sent these two to you knowing all of it. He sent them anyway,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ said Lucien. ‘It was a different message.’

‘It’s about the guns,’ she said. He chuckled softly, ‘I think you are right – again.’ He turned his head to kiss her forehead, ‘you are too clever my love. Your old friend wants me to know he will try for one thing if he cannot get the other.’

She rubbed her hand across the marbled strength of his shoulder and arm. 'There is a small plan in place. M Renaudot is coming to dine with us tomorrow’ she told him.

‘How is his health?’ Lucien asked.

‘Not as hardy as he would like,’ she said, ‘he is going to ask us for support for his medical clinic.’

‘What will you tell him?’ he asked.

‘I have already sent instructions to provide the funds. An article, not identifying the benefactor by name of course, will be in his weekly. First bread and now medicine.’

He stopped stroking her arm and looked at her in surprise. He burst out laughing, ‘you have been busy!  
’  
She smiled, ‘I confess it was suggested to me by the Duchess of Aiguillon. She learned a great deal from watching Richelieu!’

He laughed again, ‘our benefactress curiously comes to my aid again.’

‘Besides – I am not without influence,’ she said lifting a stubborn chin, ‘perhaps its time to remember who I am.’

‘I know who you are.’ He reached for her and lifted her on top of him. She clucked her tongue at him, ‘what if a servant enters?’

‘There isn’t a servant in this house who values their life who would dare enter this room!’ he looked aghast at the notion.

‘But as I am an injured man you must do all the work my darling.’ She flexed her knees to sit astride him and poked his chest, ‘I don’t recall that impeding your ardor in the past.’ He smiled at her rubbing his thumb across her lower lip, his eyes darkening with desire.

She leaned over him, ‘sir, do you assume I have lascivious designs on your person?’

‘Dear heaven,’ he murmured reaching for her, ‘I do hope so,’ and pulled her down to him.

>  
In the early dawn hours, a boy banged his fist on the garrison gate. A Musketeer peered out, ‘got the market order for Madame D’Artagnan,’ said a boy, shivering in the early morning chill. ‘I’m to take it to the kitchens.’

The Musketeer grunted and pushed open the gate to let the boy drive the wagon into the yard and waved him toward the kitchens.

‘Cook not up yet,’ said the Musketeer. ‘You’ll have to unload it yourself.’ The boy nodded and clucked at the horse to move the wagon forward.

The Musketeer watched from the gate as the boy drove the wagon to the back of the yard and stopped the horse, setting the brake. The boy jumped down, threw off the heavy cloth cover and started pulling baskets from the back. The Musketeer turned away to check the street and wait for the garrison to come fully awake.

Half an hour later the boy drove the empty wagon through the gate, saluting to the Musketeer and rumbling off down the street. The Musketeer closed the gate and resumed his watch.

>  
Constance settled the baby back in his cot and turned to her husband. He was reading a pamphlet and scowling. ‘Bad news?’ she smiled at him. His scowl deepened.

‘Complaints about the price of grain and flour. A call for the return of the savior of Paris,’ he snorted angrily. ‘It’s treason!’

Constance lowered her eyes. She didn’t want to argue with her husband. She had handed out bread to starving people made from grain that was probably stolen by the savior of Paris.

A knock at the door. ‘What?’ called the Captain of the Musketeers irritably. The cook stood at the door looking confused.

‘My kitchens cannot be used for your storehouse Captain!’ the cook scolded, also irritable.

‘How am I to cook for the men!’ he demanded. D’Artagnan scowled at him. ‘Dammit,’ he muttered to himself, ‘now what.’

He tossed the paper away, stood up and strode past the cook and out the door. Constance ran after him.

‘What are you talking about!’ he shouted as he ran down the stairs. He walked toward the kitchens followed by the muttering cook. A small crowd was gathered in the doorway. He pushed his way through, Constance peered around him into the room and sucked her her breath.

In the middle of the kitchen was a large rectangular table. Baskets with vegetables, a side of beef, potatoes were set on the table. Scattered along the length of the table was a stack of muskets and several cases of shot. On top of the munitions were loaves of bread – and melons.

Constance gasped audibly. A few of the assembled company turned to her, and she flushed deeply, 'However did these get here?' she cried innocently, ducking her head - her eyes gleaming in amusement at the melons.

>  
‘Where did you hear this?’ asked Paul de Vry. Lucien shrugged, ‘the Musketeer.’ He couldn’t claim to be shocked that there were rumors and half-truths abut him. Privateers were notorious and seamen boastful of their exploits and their part in hunting prizes.

‘It’s helped us to have your fearsome reputation without having to actually do most of it!’ Paul declared with a sour look.

‘This is different,’ said Lucien.

‘You said the Musketeer said this? How would a Musketeer know of it?’ Lucien shrugged and shook his head.

‘It was a provocation Lucien – to distract you during the fight. Nothing more than that.’ Paul dismissed it easily. ‘And it worked,’ he said ruefully tilting his chin to the bandage visible under his shirt. They had work to do and he didn’t want Lucien to be further distracted.

Lucien sighed and turned to the papers on the desk. Paul settled into the chair opposite and started making entries in one of the big ledgers. Lucien watched him absently for a few minutes. The Musketeer had not been trying to provoke him. The Musketeer had told him why he wanted him dead.

>

He entered Flea’s tavern and spied Martin and his twin brother Gunther at a back table. They were spearing large chunks of meat from a big bowl on the table and drinking ale from goblets in big gulps. In unison they nodded at Grimaud as he crossed the room to him.

He sat and looked around the room. It was too early for the usual crowd that assembled after a long work day. The fire was low and several card games underway at tables. A serving girl passed among the tables bringing food or taking dishes away. She glanced toward him and he gave an imperceptible nod. His gaze paused at a woman sitting alone at a table, shuffling a deck of cards. Dark eyes and long dark hair covered with a colorful scarf, she stared boldly back at him. A fortune teller.

Martin grunted, ‘I didn’t think the tiny woman let them in here,’ he tipped his knife toward the woman, who bared her teeth at him insolently but looked away.

‘She doesn’t,’ said Lucien, ‘bad for business.’ But it was Flea’s business and he would not interfere. The girl brought his ale and he took a deep drink.

‘What do they call this place,’ Gunther asked placing a potato wedge in his mouth and chewing.

‘I call it Flea’s,’ said Lucien. Gunther waved his knife, ‘not a proper name for a tavern,’ he groused, ‘something you’d find on a boar’s ass!’ His eyes widened in sudden realization.

‘Now that’s a proper name for tavern,’ he declared. ‘The Boar’s Ass!’ The two men roared with laughter.

‘I’m sure Flea will love it,’ Lucien said drily but smiled at their good humor.

‘Heard any stories about me recently?’ he addressed his question to Martin, but both men turned their identical faces toward him. Both barked with laughter at the same time.

‘Plenty of stories about you Grimaud,’ laughed Martin. ‘You are on two continents at the same time, have magical powers, can fly like a hawk, and eat the livers of the enemies you kill.’ Lucien grimaced in disgust and rolled his eyes.

Gunther leaned forward to spear another hunk of met, ‘You should know I never believe any of the stories the women tell,’ he said pointing his finger at Lucien, ‘no man could do what they claim – not even you Grimaud!’ he declared. Both men grinned at him.

‘Stories about,’ Lucien hesitated, ‘killing children. Burning them.’ Silence fell. The two mercenaries exchanged quick glances and did not meet his eyes.

‘A few years ago,’ said Martin, ‘in Porto Farina a man mentioned something like that.’ Silently, Lucien waited, his face impassive, his eyes hooded and dark. Martin shrugged.

‘A raid somewhere,’ he said, ‘things were done.’

‘This man was there?’

Martin shrugged, ‘he said he heard it from another.’ Lucien didn’t ask bother to ask if it was believed to be true. Some would believe anything about him, and some would not.

‘I didn’t pay much attention,’ Martin said wiping his knife against his leg and slipped the knife into his boot. He leaned his chair back on two legs folding his arms across his massive chest and gazed steadily into Lucien’s dark eyes.

‘It didn’t sound like you,’ he said simply.

Lucien nodded and drained his tankard, thumping it several times against the table top. He stood up.

‘You will let me know if you hear it again,’ The men nodded. He slowed as he passed the fortune teller who held up the cards and smiled invitingly, ‘care to know your fortunes, sir?’

He was in mid-stride when she suddenly grasped his hand and turned it palm up. Startled, he stopped as she quickly traced the lines on his palm with one long finger. He snatched his hand back as though it burned from her touch. She looked up at him with dark fathomless eyes.

‘Rascal misses you but the one in your heart flies free and is known to you.’


	62. Poking the Bear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucien plays a dangerous game...and hides an even more dangerous secret.

The laundress towed the cart through the gate and toward the rear entrance into the workrooms of the palace. Against her slender legs she could feel the rustle of the silk chemise against her legs, cool and light as a feather – not thick and scratchy. She tucked the package under the folded laundry and smiled prettily at the guard who stopped her at the door.

‘You look pleased with yourself this morning,’ he grinned at her, his eyes running over her shapely form and excellent bosom.

‘And why should I not Wardein?’ she retorted pertly, ‘am I not laundress to the Queen and her ladies?’ She chucked him under the chin with impertinence, ‘while you sir, stand here and can only imagine a ladies’ finery….’

‘That’s enough,’ he warned with mock seriousness. He was poking among the baskets in the cart, ‘that sort of impudent talk can get a man riled. You may not like where it leads,’ he smirked at her.

She slapped at his hands, ‘you get dirt from your filthy hands on any of her Majesty’s linen, I will beat you myself.’ She picked up the tongue of the cart to pull it forward.

‘Promises my love,’ called the guard as the cart moved into the lower level of the palace, ‘promises!’

She lifted the baskets to the stone floor. A maid peered around the corner and quickly entered, closing the door after her.

‘Do you have it?’ the maid was excited, her voice almost squeaky with anticipation. The laundress pulled the package out and handed it to her and lifted her own skirt. The maid fingered the chemise.

‘It’s beautiful.’ The laundress smiled, ‘and two for you as well.’ The maid smiled and then leaned forward to whisper, ‘you saw him?’

‘Yes,’ the laundress whispered back her eyes shining with excitement.

‘Is he as handsome as they say?’ The laundress sighed dramatically, ‘he is everything a man should be – charming, handsome, those shoulders….’ she spread her hands and the maid gasped. ‘You talked to him?’

‘Well,’ the laundress demurred. ‘Now you know what to do?’ The maid nodded. ‘It is all prepared.’

A few minutes later the laundress passed back out the palace door and stuck her tongue out at the guard who laughed at her and attempted to pinch her bottom. She sashayed out of his reach and sauntered down the path toward the road, humming a tune and singing softly to herself,

_“A Fox may steal your hens, Monsieur_  
A Whore may take your coin,  
Your Daughter may rob your chest  
Your Wife may even join.  
But this is all but picking,  
With Coin, and Chest, and Chicken.  
If ever there was a Thief, Monsieur  
If there is a Man more fear’d  
By King, Queen, the Minister, and Loyal Musketeer  
It is the Man who stole the grain  
The Man who rules the city  
Whose name means light, though he is dark  
And shows little pity.” 

>>  
Flea had a conspiratorial smile of success as she walked through the tavern toward the two men at a back table. Martin guffawed and raised his tankard in salute, ‘to the tiny woman with the big ideas!’ he bellowed and clapped a hand the size of a platter on Grimaud’s shoulder, ‘all it cost you this time was a chemise!’ and he roared with laughter.

‘You do know,’ Lucien said as Flea slid into the chair next to him. He spoke with mock severity, ‘we are poking at the bear.’ Flea rolled her eyes at him.

‘Porthos is no bear!’ she scoffed. ‘He’s gotten fat!’ she tossed down the wine and picked at the bread.

‘Besides, he won’t think of me. I haven’t seen him in years. He’s forgotten all about us.’

‘He can hardly come have a drink with his former partners in crime,’ declared Lucien. ‘He has to arrest us the next day!’ Martin chuckled.

‘Fabian too,’ she said. ‘A Musketeer – who would have believed that?’

‘I agree – the pauldron does seem an ill match with him,’ Lucien was thoughtful – remembering Marchal’s response to the insult of his captain.

‘They forget their friends,’ she persisted. Lucien sighed with resignation, ‘they do not forget us. We might wish they would do so – but they do not.’

He watched Friquet finish sweeping the floor and lean the broom against the wall. He disappeared into the kitchen and emerged a few minutes later with a steaming bowl of food and large piece of bread. He walked toward them.

‘What have you learned?’ Lucien asked. The boy answered, ‘they still look for the black carriage.’ Grimaud pursed his lips. He had hoped they would have found it by now. He wanted to know who owned that carriage. Or who used it.

‘Raoul is still in the garrison,’ the boy added.

‘I am surprised they bother to investigate,’ groused Flea. ‘She was an actress - of no consequence to them. The King’s favorite would never be arrested for it.’

‘It’s not the King’s favorite they are trying to arrest,’ Lucien was sarcastic. ‘They use this dead girl to their own purpose – she is of no significance otherwise to them.’ He twisted his mouth angrily.

He and Sophia had gone to the burial of the young woman – at Bicetre. The Abbess had wanted her to be buried in the orphanage cemetery and there was no one to care otherwise. They had stood in the gray light of a wintry morning, snow falling to dust the ground. Aside from the weeping woman Lucien had encountered that fateful day, no one from the theater had attended the burial of their brightest star. No doubt there was already another to take her place. The Abbess and Sister Inez said prayers and it was over in minutes, the dull sound of dirt hitting the coffin as the workman shoveled it into the cold grave. The Abbess left immediately with only a nod to the Duchess de la Croix. Sister Inez and Sophia embraced, the nun murmuring a few words of comfort and then hurried after her superior.

Sophia stared forlornly at the grave as she had in another cemetery where a stone angel had marked the burial site of her infant daughter. ‘We shall never know if she was ours,’ she said softly. He tucked her chilled gloved hand under his arm. He hated his helplessness to assuage her sadness. They punished her for choosing him. It would never stop. Cold anger heated his blood and flowed through him.

He felt Flea’s hand on his arm, ‘what is it?’ She was frowning with worry at his expression. He looked at her without seeing her. He vowed - there would be no further distractions in fights and no more quarter given to Musketeers – no matter how young they seemed. He would be exactly who they expected.

He smiled at her, ‘‘Porthos is a General now,’ Lucien said, ‘a Marquis, and a married man with children.’ He watched her flinch, but she needed to be reminded. She too was of no consequence – none of them were of any consequence.

Suddenly, Friquet grinned and looked up at Grimaud, ‘M - they found some of the missing weapons in the kitchen.’ He spoke with mock wonder at such a discovery. Lucien leaned back and gave a careless insolent shrug.

‘Good heavens,’ exclaimed Grimaud, dark eyes twinkling and affecting awe, ‘who could have done such a thing?’ They all chuckled.

He stood up and laughed with reckless abandon, pointing to Martin, ‘come on you great brute of a soldier! Let’s go poke a bear!’

>>  
The wagon swayed and rumbled over the cobblestones as it approached the gated portico into the yard. It was a wide gate hung between two wings of the stone building, and as tall as the roofed entrance that sheltered the guard house below. It was almost dawn, shadows hugging the narrow border where the open yard met the stone buildings that surrounded it. A few soldiers, kitchen workers, and stable boys were yawning and nodding to each other as they walked through the yard to start their day.

‘You there!’ shouted one of the two large military guards, as the wagon approached the gate. ‘Where do you think you are going!’

The old man sitting hunched over on the bench seat pulled the horses to a stop and waited. The guard gestured for him to stay seated and walked around the wagon with a suspicious air.

‘What have you got here?’ the guard demanded, lifting the heavy cover and peering inside the wagon. The second guard glanced inside and moved back to keep an eye on the driver.  
‘What is all this?’ Boxes were stacked inside the wagon and piles of metal pieces.

‘For the blacksmith sir,’ replied the old man in a hoarse voice that ended in a coughing fit. He pulled his hat down around his ears and shivered in the early morning air. His coat was thin, his gloves worn and patched, and he wore a large muffler around his scrawny neck that he pulled up to warm his straggly bearded face. ‘I was hoping for a few coins for what I found.’

‘You ‘found’ these tools?’ accused the soldier sarcastically, throwing back the heavy cloth cover to reveal several boxes with hammers, chisels and tongs of various lengths.

‘No sir,’ cried the old man fearfully, ‘M Didier told me to collect his tools for him sir. Please sir, ask M Didier.’ He held up his hand in front of his face as though fearful the soldier would strike him.

With an air of disgust, the soldier threw back the cover and waved the wagon forward, ‘get it done then,’ he said sternly. ‘I want you out of here!’ The old man nodded, lifted the reins and urged his horse forward. The guard watched him for a moment shaking his head doubtfully. He turned to the other guard.

‘I’m going to follow him. Make sure he goes out of the yard when he returns.’

A short time later, the wagon, now empty crossed the yard and approached the gate. The guard stood, stretched and ambled to let the wagon pass through. He ignored the driver and slammed the gate shut, returning to his post.

The wagon bumped and rumbled along the cobblestones and turned into a busy street paralleling the river and the quays. The driver straightened up on the bench stretching muscles that had been hunched over and pulled the worn gloves from his strong capable hands. He lifted the reins and urged the horse to a faster pace, weaving expertly around slow-moving drays, working men hurrying to their labors and women with laundry baskets. He yanked the cap from his head and his dark hair fell in a tumble to his shoulders. He looked over his shoulder as a man climbed up from under the cover over the wagon bed to sit beside him.

‘Very dramatic,’ remarked the driver as the man pulled a flask of wine from under the seat and took a long drink. ‘I thought you were actually going to strike me!’

‘Ja! snorted the man. ‘I missed my calling to the stage!’ he took a drink and handed the flask to the man beside him, ‘we both did!’ They laughed uproariously and passed the flask between them as the wagon bounced along down the road.

>>  
General du Vallon sat in his large chair behind his massive desk in his office. Tall windows lined one wall overlooking the courtyard below and winter sunlight filters weakly into the room and across the polished parquet floor. A fire was roaring in the large fireplace.

His two aides, the Chevalier du Guitaut and the Marquis of Chappes, Louis du Aumont were sitting at smaller desks to the right of the General, dipping quills into inkpots and bent over their work. Correspondence, field reports, duty rosters, injury reports, supply requests were neatly stacked on their desks, waiting for the General’s attention. Maps were laid out on other large rectangular tables, small red markers indicating enemy forces.

The General leaned back and raised one booted foot to rest on the corner of the desk and looked again at the letter from D’Artagnan. He was keeping Raoul at the garrison as they investigated the death of a young actress from the Marais theater. Raoul had been one of her lovers and was overheard arguing with the young woman the night of the killing.

He sighed and let his hand fall to his lap and watched absently as his aides worked. It was a sorry business into which the young man had gotten himself entangled. The Vicomte was diligent in his duties and Porthos found no reason to fault him. He had served his King with honor. Even in the heat of a jealous argument Porthos considered it unlikely the young man would ever harm a woman.

In any event, nothing would come of it. The King would not consider the killing of an actress significant enough to abandon his favorite. Porthos thought that the disregard for her young life so cruelly ended would trouble Raoul as much as his worry about the accusations against him.

Porthos picked up another letter from one of his field commanders. Conditions were poor, too many men sick, not from war injuries, but from the cold and wet conditions in the camps, no warm coats, lack of fuel to build fires for warmth, little food and worse medical conditions. His soldiers were at more risk from the dearth of provisioning by their own country than from their enemy. It was an intolerable situation.

A knock at the door and one of the junior officers jumped to his feet to open it. Artillery Lieutenant du Clermont entered quickly, removing his hat and bowing to his commanding officer. Porthos looked at the man with a sour expression and beckoned the officer forward.

‘Your Grace,’ he said breathlessly, ‘there has been….’ he hesitated, ‘we have found…’ once again he hesitated in delivering this unwelcome news.

‘Out with it,’ said the General irritably, ‘what is it man?’

‘G-guns sir,’ blurted the officer. ‘In the blacksmith shop.’ For a moment General du Vallon stared at him and then comprehension filled his face. He grimaced angrily. Another deposit of weapons. This game with Grimaud was getting ridiculous and he was fed up. He also had no idea how Grimaud was doing it.

Munitions had been discovered over the past several days, all in different locations – the garrison kitchen and even the palace. Porthos had laughed privately at that – the Queen had been overhead by many demanding that Grimaud return her guns. It would seem the man had heard her.

The General growled and shoved back his chair hard enough to tip it precariously. Enough of being mocked and teased by Lucien Grimaud!

‘Show me!’ he commanded and swept from the room followed by the lieutenant and his aides.

>>  
Porthos stood with hands on hips, breathing fire into the blacksmith’s workshop. The brick forge and chimney were near the doorway. Close to the forge, the anvil was set on a hard wood base buried several feet into the floor of the workshop. Around this base crates and piles of muskets and shot were stacked. Long pikes were arrayed against the side of the forge and a neat pile of hammers, chisels and tongs was arrayed on the top of the anvil. Scrap metal had been piled to the side of the forge. On the top of the pile were several loaves of bread.

‘How did this get here?’ he demanded of the guard who was looking around the workshop as though he expected to see someone.

‘There was a wagon….’

‘You let a wagon pass through?’ the General was incredulous and glowered at the guard.

‘No…no sir,’ stammered the guard. ‘We checked it…’

‘We?’ this from du Clermont, ‘who is we?’

‘The other guard sir,’ said the confused man. ‘He checked everything, looked under the cover and the wagon. There was nothing but what was for the blacksmith sir.’

‘Where is this guard?’ asked M du Aumont. Now the guard seemed confused and looked around the room again. ‘I…’  
‘Never mind!’ barked the General. ‘It’s done.’

The blacksmith M Didier was examining the tools, admiring the workmanship of the hammers. He smiled at his General and help up the hammer approvingly.

‘Excellent Your Grace,’ said the blacksmith. ‘I am most grateful for this unexpected generosity.’ Porthos grunted. The blacksmith tilted his head at the pile of metal pieces, ‘its good quality sir.’ Porthos pursed his lips together in aggravation.

The blacksmith looked uncertainly at the bread, ‘General, is this meant for me and the apprentices?’ he asked. Porthos growled – more loudly this time, turned on his heel and stomped away.

‘How does he do these things?’ he muttered to himself and shouted for his aides. ‘Where is Grimaud?’ he bellowed. ‘I want to know where he is right now!’

The blacksmith, M Didier watched the General and his entourage walk away. He looked down at the hammer he was holding, a slow smile forming, and he chuckled. The man had said it would be worth his while to be late to work this morning and he had been right. He stooped to sort through the pile of metal pieces. He could create something more interesting than horseshoes, knives and nails with this quality of iron. He chuckled again. Whatever was said about Lucien Grimaud – the man was never boring.

>>  
Lucien waved the hand that was holding his half-eaten apple toward the tangle of small boats piling up against the quay ‘is it the embargo?’ he asked. Paul nodded.

‘The embargo was lifted,’ said Paul. ‘We are moving as much as we can down river. I expect several shipments later. ‘I’m sending a wagon directly to Flea. She will need to get it moved immediately.’

‘Tell her not to be greedy,’ said Lucien as he plucked two bottles of wine from the crate and strode up the walkway to the street running alongside the quay. The wharf was teeming with people, the shops busy with customers, sea and river men, errand boys dodging in and out of the crowd and racing through the streets. He was almost to his tavern when a loud sonorous voice boomed above the din, ‘Grimaud!’ He turned around.

Like a great ship sailing into port, people parting around him like waters of the oceans, the General du Vallon – Porthos – was bearing down on him. His dark thick eyebrows were snapped together in a dark thunderous line communicating an impending outburst of fury. He was armed with sword and pistol and Lucien looked past him quickly – there were no troops accompanying the General. A solitary young aide trotted after the General, dodging around those in his path hurrying to keep pace with the long strides of his commanding officer.

‘I demand to talk with you sir!’

‘General du Vallon!’ cried Lucien, ‘to what do we owe this honor Your Grace?’ Porthos growled loudly enough to make a man walking next to him move away quickly.

‘Don’t flirt with me Grimaud,’ he snarled. ‘You know damn well why I’m here!’ Lucien grinned.

‘Well I am sure I do not know to what you refer my General,’ he said in a mocking voice, ‘but come inside and tell me about it.’ He held open the tavern door and the General swept past him. At this time of day only a few men were grouped around tables eating or playing a game of cards. The innkeeper was at the serving bar. The room fell silent as every head swiveled to look at the large commanding man standing in the open doorway. General du Vallon stomped down the stairs.

Lucien let go of the door and followed Porthos. The aide managed to stop the door from slamming into his face, pushed it open and walked quickly down the stairs, stopping abruptly at the bottom to avoid running full into Lucien. The privateer turned around to look down at the officer suddenly finding himself standing toe to toe with Lucien Grimaud.

‘’S-s-sorry sir,’ the young man jumped back and gaped at the privateer in shock and wonder. He had never seen the notorious ‘king’ of Paris.

‘You are Lucien Grimaud,’ he murmured to himself. Porthos and Lucien exchanged glances and looked at the young aide who flushed with embarrassment.

‘You’re not going to swoon, are you?’ asked Lucien drily raising one eyebrow. Porthos snorted, trying not to laugh, ‘sit there!’ he barked at his aide indicating another table. The young man sat down, his face as red as his jacket.

A serving girl appeared with glasses and Lucien poured wine from one of the bottles he held. Porthos tossed back the wine and made a face of approval. Lucien grinned and refilled his glass. Porthos drank more slowly this time.

‘It’s good,’ Porthos said with grudging approval. He pulled off his gloves and looked around the room with obvious distaste.

‘It’s Spanish,’ Lucien informed him with amusement. Porthos glowered at him.

‘You do know I’m at war with the Spanish!’ he bellowed. ‘Hell - I don’t suppose you have time to worry about that…you are so busy stealing grain and guns.’

‘And making bread,’ Lucien reminded him. ‘And saving the garrison and Musketeers and delivering fruit for abandoned Musketeer wives and children.’ He heaved a great beleaguered sigh, ‘I am very busy.’

‘It wasn’t your grain to steal,’ Porthos was not to be diverted.

‘It wasn’t my idea!’ protested Grimaud with a wounded air. ‘How could you think such a thing?’

‘You should have told Flea no!’ the general thundered.

‘You should try telling her no,’ countered Grimaud, raising his hands in a helpless gesture, ‘she doesn’t like hearing ‘no’. ‘

Porthos narrowed his eyes in disapproval and took another drink of the offending wine. ‘I remember,’ he groused and for a moment was lost in his own thoughts. He turned back to Lucien, ‘she could get into real trouble.’

‘I don’t let her get into real trouble,’ said Lucien simply.

‘Mmm…’ muttered Porthos looking away toward the window. It had been many years since he had seen Flea. He leaned back in his chair and regarded Grimaud. He nodded and lifted the bottle to pour himself another drink.

‘These little piles of guns you are leaving everywhere…’ the general started to say...

‘What?’ Grimaud was amazed. Someone is leaving your guns all over Paris?’ He widened his eyes in amazement.

‘You know exactly where they have been left! The garrison and my own yard you scoundrel!

‘Where are your men? Your officers?’ cried Grimaud. ‘They could not keep your guns in your arsenal and now they cannot keep them out!’ He leaned forward to say in a low conspiring voice, ‘perhaps you should recruit this very clever thief!’

‘The Queen's laundry. No one was amused,’ Porthos scolded.

‘Oh, I think someone must have been amused,’ said Grimaud with a mocking smile, ‘all of Paris heard her Majesty demanding their return.’

‘That’s your Queen,’ warned Porthos.

‘So she is! And of course, her wish is my command,’ Grimaud bowed his head in feigned submission. Porthos pursed his lips and growled again. He pointed a thick finger at Grimaud.

‘I need those guns,’ the general said sternly. ‘In the spring I will have men on the field of battle not armed and with little shot.’ I won’t have men dying because of it.’

Porthos leaned forward. ‘I don’t believe you intended that to be the outcome.’ Silence fell between the two men. Porthos sighed and leaned back. Grimaud poured the last of the wine.

‘I also don’t believe the rubbish about the actress,’ said Porthos abruptly. Lucien was startled.

‘You as one of her lovers,’ continued Porthos and waved his hand dismissively, ‘and the rest. You would not have abused Sophia that way.’

‘I do not abuse her in any way,’ replied Lucien quietly, a note of warning in his voice. Porthos nodded, ‘no, I have never thought so.’

‘But!’ the general leveled a stern glare at Lucien, ‘you should get your wife under control! You know I fished her out of the tunnels – the little fool. I almost tossed her into the Bastille!’

Lucien grinned, ‘at least I know why she won’t try it again.’ He gave a formal bow, ‘permit me to express my gratitude for your service rescuing my wife.’ Porthos grunted and drained his wine.

‘They know how to make wine,’ he grumbled. Lucien grinned and pushed the second bottle to him.

‘With my compliments General.’ The general ignored it and stood up, pulling on his gloves.

‘I want my guns back Grimaud,’ he set his hands to his hips, ‘no more little games! Bring them all back.’

He turned to his aide who had leaped to his feet straightening his tunic and standing attentively to his commanding officer.

‘This man,’ he pointed to Lucien, ‘would have been among the best of us.’ He turned back to Lucien, ‘had you deigned to stay.’

The aide’s eyes widened in amazement as he stared first at the general and then at Lucien Grimaud. It was hard to read the man’s expression. He was looking at Porthos, both men remembering a day under a hot sun where they had met in a dusty garrison yard. Lucien lowered his eyes and gave a nod of his head acknowledging the compliment.

Porthos grabbed the wine bottle and strode to the door, ‘bring it back!’

>>

Lucien pulled the hood of his black cloak over his head, gripped his sword and stayed in the shadows of the buildings. He walked quickly ducking occasionally into narrow spaces to pause and listen. Distant sounds of a horse on cobbled streets, a door opening and tavern noises spilling into the night, a drunken man singing softly. No one was following him.

He turned into a dark alleyway that ran to the rear of the building and entered the lower floor. It had, at one time served as a small stable. He closed and latched the wide double doors. The former stable was now used as a storeroom, barrels of ale stacked along one wall, crates of wine and sacks of grain. Vegetables hung in ropes from the ceiling. He walked to the opposite wall. It was fitted with a cupboard, where small tools and tack were stored. He reached inside the cupboard unlocking a mechanism and a narrow section of the cupboard opened as a small door. He stooped and walked through it. If he had unlocked another mechanism, the entire wall would have swung open. He set the lantern on a high hook – the light illuminating the beginning of a long room, dry and slightly warm. It had been dug deep into the hillside extending underneath the building next door. The walls and ceiling were reinforced with wood planks and beams. Lucien heaved a deep sigh and stepped forward.

Occupying this secret room were two large military cannons. Tucked behind these fearsome weapons –was a plain black carriage.


	63. Lullaby

**Author Mordaunt**

_The chapter is based on “La fille au rois Louis” (The daughter of King Louis; Anonymous.) The song is dated sometime in the 15th or 16th c. I recommend the version of the song by Le poème harmonique (Vincent Dumestre and Claire Lefilliâtre) which is available on youtube. I think the chapter works better if you listen as you read..._

*******************************************

> _“King Louis stood on his bridge_  
>  _His little daughter in his arms,  
> _ _It is the handsome Deon the knight  
> _ _She wants to marry.”_

The room is dark, its shadows animated by a blazing fire. Outside the window, the snow drifts, simmering silver against a starlit sky. She leans back against the lush, comfortable pillows of the bed, humming the old song, as the small fidgeting bundle in her arms yawns with joyful contentment. She arrived defying all expectations, and cried with obstinate determination, her beautiful daughter. She arrived with a full head of raven black hair, skin pale as the moon, eyes large and blue like the sky at dawn, lips the shape of a tiny heart, a small upturned nose, and long slender fingers, those same fingers that reached for her father’s hand through the womb. “She has the hands of a musician!” he marveled, gently kissing his daughter’s fingertips.

> _“Sweet daughter, do not love Deon_  
>  _For he is an outlaw  
> _ _The poorest knight  
> _ _His valor not yet proven…”_

“My beautiful Bianca,” he calls her. Never has a man been more enchanted at the first sight of his daughter. Even with these last few months now between them, she never imagined him so generous, so tender, so full of heart. It was his mind that had always prevailed, and his heart she had been unable to reach so many years ago, when, in vain, she had declared her innocence for his brother’s death. When she returned to Paris after the war, it was his unbending mind she encountered once more, whatever heart he had, given to another. She never imagined there was anything left for her, besides his guilt. This man she sees before her now, she does not recognize. Was he there all this time?

> _“I like Deon, and love him_  
>  _I love him for his beauty  
> _ _More than my beloved mother  
> _ _More than my beloved father.”_

He held his daughter in his arms the entire first night as he sat next to his wife, refusing to let the nurse put the baby in her cot. “On this first night my beautiful Bianca shall sleep with her mother and father,” he declared with such resolve that all the nurse could do was curtsy and leave the room. He kissed Alessandra softly. “Rest sweetheart,” he whispered, and she nested her body next to his, forgetting the pain and anguish of all those months since the Duc de Beaufort’s escape from Vincennes. She did not think that was possible. Pain was how she remembered: Thomas’ ravaging hands, the noose scarring her neck, the frozen days that followed, and after that, just emptiness and rage. Where was this man then? 

> _“-My girl, this love you must forget_  
>  _Or to the tower for life you go  
> _ _\- My father, I choose the tower  
> _ _Than to ever forget my love.”_

She knew he would not return, but still she hoped that he might, to the very end. Rémy, his old valet, was the first face she saw when she opened her eyes. How he cut her down from the noose she did not know, or why he did it. Thomas used to beat him with his riding whip. When she opened her eyes, Rémy was leaning over her, his hands fumbling under her skirts. She could feel nothing. As if she had no body at all. She met his eyes, and he stopped, lowering his gaze. Then he pretended to adjust something that felt like a bandage around her neck. She could not stop trembling. Perhaps it was cold but it was not this kind of trembling. Her chest ached. She could not breathe. She wanted to know where she was, for she realized she had no memories at all, besides standing in a sea of forget-me-nots on a spring day. She wanted to ask, but she had no voice, the taste of blood in her mouth. “I will take you to the Sisters at St. John*,” Rémy said, and it meant nothing to her at all. He lifted her from the ground without much care, and shoved her onto the back of a wagon among sacks of grain. She measured the journey with every painful breath, every jolt of the wheels making her gasp for air. Pain triggered memory, and memory triggered pain. Was the baby stirring still? She could not tell. She saw the sky turn purple, and then dark blue. He was there suddenly, next to her in a field of golden barley, and it was a summer day. He touched the dint at the base of her neck gently with his finger, and he whispered “I claim this for me…” When she opened her eyes again, the sky was black and full of stars, and it was cold, the smell of frost in the air.  “We are here,” Rémy said, pulling her from the cart, and making her stand.

> _“-Rather than deny my love_  
>  _I prefer to die in the tower.  
> _ _-Then daughter, you will die there  
> _ _And never find peace.”_

Did she walk? She does not remember. She remembers the creaking sound of a wooden gate and the face of a nun. “Bring her in,” she said. She remembers a hall, full of steam, the humid air making every breath painful. She felt she was drowning. She was cold, freezing, despite the unbearable heat. Someone brought her broth but she could not swallow. “We cannot keep you here,” a woman’s voice spoke in a haze of light and mist. She sounded important, commanding. “You are a condemned criminal. You must leave as soon as you can stand on your feet.” The voice faded away and so did the light, but the pain remained. It was how she knew she was alive. Was the baby stirring still?

> _“As beautiful Deon, rode by,_  
>  _A letter flew his way  
> _ _It spoke and it said:  
> _ _‘Beautiful one, do not forget me’ ”_

He was back again suddenly, standing at the doorway, bringing a gust of spring air and the breeze of the countryside into the stuffy room. Maybe it was their bedchamber. “You should have come riding with me,” he exclaimed, and his smile lifted the sadness in her heart. “Why are you sad?” he asked but she could not tell him although she knew the answer. He sat beside her and showed her an empty locket around his neck. “Press me a flower, sweetheart,” he said gently, “so that I will never forget you.”

> _“Pretend to be dead, he said_  
>  _Let them take you to Saint-Denis;  
> _ _Carry you underground  
> _ _To your sepulcher.”_

Her eyes adjusted to the light. It was morning. She was crouched against a wall, the sounds of open countryside around her. “You cannot stay here,” the nun had said. “You must leave as soon as you can stand.” She must be able to stand on her feet then, she reckoned, but she could not. She tried over and over. When she began to walk the sun was setting behind the hills in the distance. Where the road was taking her she did not know, nor cared. But he was there suddenly, walking beside her, the light of the setting sun glimmering in his gray eyes. He leaned towards her, and placed a furtive kiss on her neck. “Remember to greet the villagers as we pass by them, Milady,” he whispered playfully. “You are their mistress now.” How long they walked side by side she could not tell. Perhaps it was a moment. Perhaps it was hours. She stopped when she could walk no longer, and it was a moonless night.

> _“The beauty followed the words,_  
>  _he spoke to her as he rode by,  
> _ _And let herself be buried,  
> _ _Underground in Saint-Denis.”_

She saw the glow of a small fire in the distance, and heard the low grunt of horses. Why she decided to walk towards the fire she did not know. She was thirsty, that much she knew. She could feel the baby no longer. “Who goes there?” The shadow that stood up spoke in a man’s voice. Rough. Inflected. Foreign. Someone uncocked a pistol. A sword was removed from its sheath. Still she approached. She could not speak. She wondered if they would shoot her. She hoped they would.

> _“The beautiful Deon rides by:_  
>  _"Stop, priests, stop there!  
> _ _Do not take her away,  
> _ _But let me gaze upon her!”_

Perhaps it was a gunshot. Or perhaps she collapsed before she reached them. Someone dragged her near the fire. He spoke a language she could not understand. Someone gave her wine, and she tried to drink but her throat was raw, and she felt as if she was burning. She heard a horse galloping in the distance. Was it him? It was early dawn again, and she was standing on the gallows under the old oak tree, in her white dress, a few forget-me-nots in her hand. She saw him riding his horse in the distance. He lingered for a moment and then rode away. Was it him, returning? She no longer had the flowers. How would he remember her?

> _“He pulled out his fine gold knife_  
>  _And unstitched her linen shroud:  
> _ _She sighed as he kissed her  
> _ _He marveled at her beauty.”_

“What is this?” the rider exclaimed approaching the fire. Someone lifted her head gently, and let a few drops of water onto her lips. “Try to swallow very slowly,” the man’s voice said. She felt his arm sliding around her waist. He placed her head on his chest. A hand brushed her hair off her face. She could suddenly breathe. “That’s it, my girl,” the man’s voice encouraged her. He removed the bandage around her neck making a sound of disgust. “Give me a clean bandage Martin,” he ordered. He sounded like a man used to giving orders. “I am taking her with me. No one must ever know about this,” he demanded, lifting her in his arms.

> _“Alas! Such betrayal_  
>  _by my daughter and the beautiful Deon!  
> _ _They must be married now,  
> _ _And never be talked about again.”_

When she opened her eyes, it was night. She was in someone’s bed, in a wood paneled room, lit only by a glowing fire. She tried to move but found the pain unbearable. “Do not try to move, love,” the man said softly. He was dark, his face buried in the shadows, his hair long, and black. He touched her cheek with his hand: “You have a fever, you are very sick.” She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again it was morning, and he was still there, tall and wide-shouldered, tenderness nesting in his hazel eyes. She wanted to ask if her baby was alive but she could not speak. “Was it makeshift gallows they prepared for you, love?” There was anger in his voice. “What was it you did, refused to be raped by some great lord?” The question ripped through her heart like a knife, and she closed her eyes, so that he would not see any tears. She would shed none. He pressed her hand in his. “You are safe here, love. No one knows this place. No one can find you. No one will ever know…” He kissed her hand. “My name is Lucien,” he said.

> _“Sound trumpets and violins,_  
>  _My daughter will have the beautiful Deon.  
> _ _When a Girl loves,  
> _ _A Father cannot stop her!”_

“It is a lovely song,” Athos says walking into the bedchamber. “But I do not plan to be this kind of father.” He smiles and sits next to her on the bed wrapping his arms around her, and the sleeping infant. “Sweetheart, what is the matter?” he asks. “Are you crying?”

“No,” she replies, but he tastes the saltiness of tears on her cheek as he kisses her. He brushes a lock of hair off her brow and kisses her again. “I wish you could tell me. I wish you could trust me…” he falters. She leans her head against his shoulder. “It is a sad song,” she replies her mind lingering on that other baby she never held in her arms, “that is all.” He knows this is not the truth.

“You have a letter,” he says, handing her a sealed envelope. It is a letter from Lucien.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter is based on “La fille au rois Louis” (The daughter of King Louis; Anonymous.) The song is dated sometime in the 15th or 16th c. For this chapter I skipped one stanza. The entire song is as follows:  
> La fille au Roi Louis   
> Le Roi Louis est sur son pont  
> Tenant sa fille en son giron  
> Elle se voudrait bien marier  
> Au beau Déon, franc chevalier
> 
> Ma fille, n'aimez jamais Déon  
> Car c'est un chevalier félon;  
> C'est le plus pauvre chevalier,  
> Qui n'a pas vaillant six deniers. 
> 
> -J'aime Déon, je l'aimerai,  
> J'aime Déon pour sa beauté,  
> Plus que ma mère et mes parents,  
> Et vous mon père, qui m'aimez tant. 
> 
> -Ma fille, il faut changer d'amour,  
> Ou vous entrerez dans la tour.  
> -J'aime mieux rester dans la tour,  
> Mon père que de changer d'amour. 
> 
> -Avant que changer mes amours,  
> J'aime mieux mourir dans la tour.  
> -Eh bien ma fille, vous y mourrez,  
> De guérison point vous n'aurez. 
> 
> Le beau Déon, passant par-là,  
> Un mot de lettre lui jeta;  
> Il y avait dessus écrit:  
> "Belle, ne le mettez en oubli";
> 
> Faites-vous morte ensevelir,  
> Que l'on vous porte à Saint-Denis;  
> En terre laissez-vous porter,  
> Point enterrer ne vous lairrai1
> 
> La belle n'y a pas manqué,  
> Dans le moment a trépassé;  
> Elle s'est laissé ensevelir,  
> On l'a portée à Saint-Denis. 
> 
> Le roi va derrière en pleurant,  
> Les prêtres vont devant chantant:  
> Quatre-vingts prêtres, trente abbés,  
> Autant d'évêques couronnés. 
> 
> Le beau Déon passant par-là:  
> -Arrêtez, prêtres, halte-là!  
> C'est m'amie que vous emportez,  
> Ah! Laissez-moi la regarder! 
> 
> Il tira son couteau d'or fin  
> Et décousit le drap de lin:  
> En l'embrassant, fit un soupir,  
> La belle lui fit un sourire
> 
> -Ah! Voyez quelle trahison  
> De ma fille et du beau Déon!  
> Il les faut pourtant marier,  
> Et qu'il n'en soit jamais parlé. 
> 
> Sonnez trompettes et violons,  
> Ma fille aura le beau Déon.  
> Fillette qu'a envie d'aimer,  
> Père ne peut l'en empêcher!
> 
>  
> 
> * Abbey of St. John at Laon (modern prefecture of Aisne): In this story we situate the La Fére estate in the north (Aisne) as with the fictional Dumas character, not in Athos-Aspis on the Gave d' Oloron, close to Sauveterre-de-Béarn and Autevielle, as with the historical Athos, who was a Gascon.


	64. Investigations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who was Cecille du Pouget? Was she the daughter of a duchess and a privateer? A determined investigator follows the trail and finds new revelatory details and uncovers puzzling information about the Bicetre orphanage. 
> 
> What are the points of intersection and who is involved?

As lawyer to many aristocratic families in the Marais, the law offices of M Elie Diodati were located on the ground floor of a large building on the Rue du Cygne. The outer door opened into a room with several desks where junior associates and investigators worked. Chairs were lined up against one wall although they were seldom used. M Diodati was a meticulously punctual man.

The inner sanctum belonged to M Diodati, book lined with comfortable chairs in front of his desk and the marble fronted fireplace, large windows to allow sunlight to stream into the room. On top of his massive desk was a small telescope with a brass inscription, ‘Elie – always see the truth - Galileo’.

Nicholas de la Reynie sat in one of the deep chairs in front of M Diodati’s desk. He was the youngest of the five investigators who worked for the lawyer. Widowed at a young age, he had married for love and suffered the loss of both his beloved wife and their baby in childbirth. Heartbroken, he plunged into his work, submerging his pain and loneliness and quickly earned a reputation as a thorough and persistent investigator.

With characteristic attention to detail, M la Reynie had prepared his report on his results to date on the orphaned child and murdered actress Cecille du Pouget. Now he waited patiently while the lawyer read it, turning the pages slowly. la Reynie had arranged the supporting documents in an orderly stack on the desk in front of him.

‘You have read all of these?’ asked M Diodati tilting his head to documents la Reynie had placed on his desk.

‘Yes,’ said M la Reynie. ‘M Grimaud conducted a well-organized search of the farms and villages surrounding Royamount. He interviewed every family and found those who had left the area. His notes are complete. There was nothing new we could add.’

‘And the Abbess?’

‘The Abbess was unable to answer my questions,’ he said. ‘She couldn’t locate her record book at the time of my meeting with her and was unable to search for it.’ The lawyer leaned back in the chair with an inquiring look.

‘She was busy preparing for the visit of Father de Paul,’ explained la Reynie in a neutral tone of voice. He paused, ‘at least that is the reason she gave me. She promised to send it to me.’ The lawyer raised his brow questioning.

‘You have reason to doubt the Abbess?’ asked the lawyer. He was slightly incredulous at the young man’s presumption. The investigator shrugged.

‘Nothing has arrived yet,’ as though that was enough reason for his doubt. The lawyer closed the report and leaned back, tapping a finger on the document. In his mind as well, nuns had no special dispensation from objective scrutiny.

‘Sir,’ said la Reynie, ‘we have found nothing to connect the actress to the Duchess de la Croix, but also nothing to rule it out definitively. The Abbess has been of little assistance. I suggest an alternative approach.’

M Diodati spread his hands, inviting the young investigator to present his case.

‘Different nuns.’

>>

The Duchess of Aiguillon looked at the card her house steward had presented to her on a silver tray. Her raised her brow in surprise and glanced at the steward.

‘Did he say what he wanted?’ she asked curiously. ‘No Madame,’ replied the servant. ‘Shall I send him away?’ The Duchess looked again at the card. ‘No,’ she said.

The Duchess of Aiguillon entered her drawing room to find an intriguing visitor – an investigator from the attorney M Diodati.

‘Your Grace,’ said Nicholas de la Reynie bowing to the Duchess. ‘My apologies Madame, for intruding on your peaceful morning.’

‘No apologies are necessary sir,’ said the gracious lady. ‘But, I am curious as to the purpose of your visit.’

‘Allow me to explain Your Grace,’ said the investigator.

An hour later, M la Reynie returned to his desk in the office on Rue du Cygne. He unrolled a map of Paris and the surrounding countryside. He spread the document with the list the Duchess had given him, marking the map against the names on the list. He sat back and studied the map. He sighed – he did not enjoy riding horses, thinking them dumb unpredictable beasts, but he would be spending a great deal of time in the saddle, traveling to villages and churches.

He prepared a brief report and a copy of the list for M Diodati. He sat back thinking about his meeting with the Duchess. For the first time he had an uneasy sense that something was not right and he felt his mind sharpen, his interest intensify. He looked again at the list prepared by the Duchess of Aiguillon.

It was a list of names – nuns who may have been at the orphanage Bicetre starting the year the Duchess de la Croix gave birth to a baby daughter at Royamount Abbey.

>>

The stallions were well matched in size and speed and thundered down the road at a full gallop, ears swiveling to the urgent voices of their riders. Tails and manes were streaming in the wind, sweat foaming on powerfully corded muscles, their legs a blur of movement to those who watched from the safety of a field or well to the side of the road. Neither rider was yielding the lead, using voice, hands and legs to urge greater speed. They flew past slower moving wagons with barely a pause in their stride. Occasionally one would seize the advantage, rushing forward forcing the other to rein hard to avoid a collision. Drivers would raise their hand in salute or a shout an objection to their wild ride.

As they crested a rise in the road, the large gray stone building appeared in the distance and the riders gripped harder and flattened themselves along the sweaty necks of their surging horses, their teeth bared with effort urging one final effort, hoof beats drumming fast and hard on the roadway. The white stallion swerved slightly, pushed ahead and entered the path first. Immediately the rider sat upright to slow the galloping horse. The stallion lifted his feet high, dancing and sliding sideways, head bobbing in objection to the restraint.

Breathless and flushed, her dark hair flying free Sophia twisted in the saddle to watch Lucien slow his horse and chortled, ‘I win!’ raising her arms in victory. He shook his head at her.

‘You almost ran me off the road!' he complained loudly as he drew closer and reached to grab her, but she danced her horse away and he missed.

‘Drat!’ he growled at her. She laughed and shook her finger, ‘none of that!’ she scolded.

‘If I had known he could run like that I wouldn’t have given him to you,’ he grumbled. She feigned shock, ‘what you mean is that you didn’t know I could get him to run like that!’ he grinned at her and bowed as an act of gracious defeat.

They walked their horses to the end of the end of the path and stopped at a low wrought iron gate hung between a stone wall. Lucien dismounted quickly and stepped around his horse to help her, but she had already swung her leg over her mount and jumped down. He turned her around and leaned into her against the horse.

‘You madame, are most charmingly disheveled,’ he murmured teasing the last of her dark locks from their pins to fall past her shoulders. Her cheeks were flushed from the wind and the excitement, her blue eyes dancing with delight. She chuckled as he bent to kiss her, his tongue sliding over her lips. She gasped.

‘You cannot kiss me like that here,’ she admonished, pushing against him. It would have been easier to move the stone wall. Lucien looked around confused and then back at her. ‘What…??’

‘It’s a sacred place,’ she insisted trying to not laugh at his bewildered expression. He snorted his objection.

‘I believe I may kiss my wife wherever I wish,’ he was indignant and growled, ‘and I may kiss her however I wish!’

He pulled her back against him, ‘come here…first you defeat me and now you say I cannot kiss you…a man can only take so much humiliation.’ Laughing, she lifted her face to his…

‘M Grimaud!’ a man’s voice called to them from beyond the gate. Surprised at a familiar voice calling his name, Lucien looked quickly over the horse and beyond the gate. A man was walking toward him followed by a woman in gray dress and wearing a nun’s wimple. Behind her a stooped man hobbled with painful effort.

‘Father de Paul!’ called Lucien. He looked back at Sophia with a devilish glint in his eye, ‘you shall have to wait my darling,’ and winked at her. She giggled and stepped out under his arm to greet the arriving party.

Lucien made the introductions and Father de Paul took Sophia’s gloved hands in his, ‘ah!’ said the priest with a smile, ‘we meet at last Your Grace.’ He turned to the Abbess, ‘Sister – our most generous benefactress has come to visit,’ he turned back to her, ‘the young lady – yes?’ Although she was not looking directly at the Abbess, she did not fail to see the nun tighten her mouth.

‘To see the stone, ‘explained Sophia. ‘We did not expect to see you or anyone here.’ She glanced at the Abbess, standing apart from them and looked back at her with no expression on her face or in her eyes.

The priest nodded, ‘I try to visit at least once a year, but today I am called to investigate crumbling masonry and damp cellars,’ he made a wry expression, ‘costly repairs may be required and I a poor substitute for a man who understands these things.’ He looked hopefully at Lucien.

‘When I saw your horse, I thought I might be saved!’ he said with a smile. Lucien smiled too, ‘I am the man for the job sir! Allow me to study the problem.’ He turned to the stooped man, ‘kindly show me the way.’

‘Sister,’ the priest addressed the Abbess, ‘please accompany M Grimaud. I will rely upon your notes and estimations of costs.’ The Abbess was startled at being instructed to attend on the notorious M Grimaud and a common worker, but she inclined her head respectfully. Lucien made a gracious sweep of his arm to wave her ahead of him. She gave him a sour look and sailed forward to lead the way.

The priest held the gate open for Sophia to pass through and together they walked into the cemetery. It was quiet, a few winter birds chirping. The air was crisp, bright sunlight warm on their shoulders as they walked between the scattering of small graves.

‘There are few buried here,’ she noted as they passed among the wooden crosses and small stones that marked the burial sites of children who had died at Bicetre. ‘Is there another cemetery?’ The priest paused to look around with a small puzzled frown. He shrugged, non-committal and they continued their walk.

‘You were here for her burial,’ remarked the priest. Sophia was surprised that he knew. Except for the tearful old woman, none of her admirers from the theater had attended. It was a sad lonely ending for a girl who had dreamed of romantic love and an adoring public.

‘Do you believe she was your daughter?’ the priest asked. His directness was oddly comforting – and she answered in equal measure, ‘I do not know, nor do I know what outcome I wish for.’

‘If she was ours, then she is truly gone forever – but I did meet her and at the very least, I know the outcome of our story. If she was not….’ her voice trailed away.

They arrived at a grave nestled under the spreading branches of a chestnut tree. It’s broad sweeping branches were bare but come spring lush greenery would sway in the breeze and birds would perch and sing their songs throughout the day.

The stone marker was a narrow rectangle and carved with her name and dates of birth and death. A small figure of a young woman sitting on a stool reading a book adorned the top of the marker.

‘Did you imagine her liking to read?’ asked the priest. She shrugged, ‘I imagined her liking stories, reading or pretending to be in a story of her invention,’ she gave a brief smile and then turned serious, ‘I did not know her.’

‘You have turned your sadness to good effect,’ de Paul said as he looked toward the gray stone building beyond the cemetery, ‘the children here already benefit from your generosity.’

‘The Duchess has guided me,’ Sophia spoke with gratitude for her new acquaintance, ‘she has been generous with her friendship.’

‘She is a good woman,’ agreed de Paul. ‘She was widowed at a young age. She would understand your sorrows.’

‘Did she also lose a child?’ asked Sophia curiously and then shook her head. ‘I apologize – I should not have made such an inquiry.’

‘She will no doubt tell her yourself,’ the priest patted her arm. ‘But I do not believe she suffered the loss of a child during her marriage.’

She glanced sharply at the priest. She had heard his careful choice of words. Puzzled, she was about to speak when he smiled, ‘shall we pray?’ and without waiting for a reply he folded his hands together and bowed his head. She stood silent as the priest murmured softly. A noise behind them and they turned to see Lucien coming towards them the old workman and the Abbess hurrying to keep up with his long strides.

‘Well?’ asked de Paul as they drew closer, ‘what do we pray for?’

‘No need to invoke the heavens Father,’ said Lucien smiling. ‘The remedies are well within the capabilities of my men, and I will send them to complete the repairs.’ The old workman was also smiling, happy to not have the responsibility for it.

‘And the cost?’ the priest was uncertain as he looked at the grim face of the Abbess who had a grudging spread of her lips that passed as her smile. It did not reach her eyes. Lucien beamed at her, ‘it my pleasure to be of service sir.’

‘That is most generous!’ exclaimed the priest, clapping his hands together.

‘Indeed sir – you are the answer to many prayers.’ Clearly startled at this description, Lucien raised his brow in amazement. The Abbess seemed to choke on her mumbled agreement.

They watched the little group move back toward the stern gray stone building. Sophia turned to Lucien, her blue eyes twinkling with amusement and feigned a reverential voice, ‘the answer to many prayers…’

He narrowed his eyes and took her arm, pulling her toward him, ‘shall I be the answer to your prayers Madame? She murmured, ‘insolent man.’

‘Yes, I am,’ his breath was warm on her neck, ‘now about that kiss…’

>>>

Nicholas de la Reynie wearily dismounted from his horse. He clung to the saddle for a moment, unsure if his legs would support him and stretched his stiff and sore backside. He turned around to look at the small stone parish set in the middle of large open area. One large oak tree was shading the entire building. To the right of the tiny church, large trees bordered the distant edge of a cemetery. He walked slowly to the sturdy wooden door, bands of iron reinforcing it in a cross-wise pattern. He placed his hand against the door. This was the last village on his list. If the nun, he expected to find inside was not here– he had no where else to look. He took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

It was an old church, a few wooden benches, the stone walls marked with narrow windows letting in little sunlight. Shadows deepened toward the front of the church where a simple stone altar was set, a wooden cross on the wall behind it. He heard a shuffling noise and peered toward the front of the church. A woman was on her knees cleaning the stone floor, lifting a sodden scrub brush and leaning heavily upon it as she moved it back and forth across the stones. She turned at the sound of his steps.

‘Sister Mary Beatrice?’ She stood up brushing the dust from her dark habit and then straightened her whimple. He introduced himself. Beneath the heavy robe, she seemed an ample woman. She had a warm smile and curious brown eyes.

‘Sister – may I inquire - were you at Bicetre orphanage at any time in the past 16 years?’ Her smile faded, the bright light of curiosity dimmed in her eyes. For the first time hope raced through him.

‘Yes,’ she answered softly. He tried not to beam with delight.

‘Sister -may I ask a few questions…regarding a baby…’

>>

Nicholas de la Reynie applied gentle pressure to rein in his tired horse. He slid from the saddle, leaning against the horse and for a moment, both man and beast stood together in blessed relief at being near the end of their journey. He straightened and walked through a low wrought iron gate, hung between two stone walls. It was late in the afternoon, the shadows beginning to lengthen as the sun dipped lower in the sky. The air was cooling, and bird songs shifting to those heralding the oncoming of night.

He pulled a parchment from his tunic, unfolded it and walked to the farthest point of the cemetery. He began to slowly retrace his steps, pausing at each row of small graves and make notations on his parchment. He continued in this way until he reached the end of the rows. He studied the document he held and looked back at the cemetery and then beyond to the large gray stone building looming upward in the darkening sky. The narrow windows looked back at him blankly, but he was suddenly sure there was a movement in a window on an upper story. He was being watched.

He stood in the cemetery with darkness beginning to descend around him. He was tired, but his fine intelligent mind was already hard at work. He was not a man given to the extravagance of speculation – rather he assembled the facts, systematically reviewing, organizing and then added remembrances to complete the story and picture they collectively created. He walked toward his horse to return to Paris. He would take his horse to the warm dry stable to a well-deserved rub-down, food, water and rest.

He, however, would go to his desk in M Diodati’s offices with his notes, map and notations to start his report. There were many odd and seemingly disconnected events and observations that he would include – although he could not deduce their meaning – not yet. He would leave nothing out.

However, he would begin his report with the most salient fact he had learned relevant to his master’s objective. He would use the words of Sister Mary Beatrice – of a baby girl arriving in the dead of night, carried by a Musketeer, ‘from Royamount Abbey,’ he had said softly as he pulled the infant, swathed in a heavy blanket from underneath his warm cloak and placed the infant in her arms.

The baby girl regarded the nun with serious searching eyes, her tiny perfectly formed head covered with the softest down of dark hair. The nun carefully opened the heavy blanket and ran her fingers gently over the elaborate design of the cloth underneath. The baby girl was wrapped, head to toe, in a beautiful silk scarf.


	65. Weaving Spiders

**Author: Mordaunt**

 

_“But O, selfe traytor, I do bring_   
_The spider love, which transubstantiates all,_   
_And can convert Manna to gall…”_   
_(John Donne 1572-1631, Twicknam Garden)_

 

She sits up from the bed languidly, and throws a delicate silk robe over her shoulders. Her gait is light, ethereal, like that of a dancer. Or a cat. “You must leave, de Renard,” she declares, her tone nonchalant. She fills two glasses with dark red wine from a silver pitcher, and walks back to the bed, her unfastened flowing robe revealing her slender, and lithe naked body. She looks very young, a girl almost, although she could be his mother’s age. Perhaps it is her pale unblemished skin. Perhaps it is her large dark blue eyes. Her hair the color of deep gold, falls to her waist in heavy curls.

He stretches under the covers, and pushes himself up against the pillows reluctantly. “You are so eager to kick me out of your bed, Madame,” he complains peevishly taking the glass she offers. He drinks, glowering at her under hooded eyes, “is there another lover outside your door?”

He expects to elicit some kind of protestation, or at least annoy her, but she leans back resting her head against the dark wooden post of the bed narrowing her eyes with amusement. “Darling,” she replies, “you are not my lover. I choose my lovers carefully. You are someone I slept with tonight.” She playfully waves her thin beautiful hand, which holds the wine glass, and brings it to her lips.

 “Well, I hope I entertained you then…” He kicks the bed covers and sits up, irritated. She shrugs: “De Wardes was persuasive, and you looked eager enough. I was curious. I am curious no longer…” 

He pushes past her, and reaches for his shirt and doublet. “I apologize for not offering better entertainment then,” he sneers. He sounds hurt rather than aloof. “Perhaps if I were a Marquis I might have been more worth of your attention, Madame!”

She chuckles as she plays with her wine glass, without deigning to look at him. “No, de Renard. I do not think that an elevated title would have helped your case…”

He feels blood rising to his temples. “Bitch!” he exclaims. He wants to grab that long slender neck of hers, and strangle her with his bare hands.

“That’s better,” she retorts. “A vulgar cub is far better than a tedious one. This is more like what de Wardes promised me…”

“De Wardes is not my pimp!” he growls. In his anger he fails to fasten his doublet correctly, and it sits on him lopsided. He unfastens it quickly swearing under his breath, and she watches him with amused eyes.

“He might as well be,” she observes. “You need all the help you can get, darling. You and that seemingly hapless mother of yours. I do not see what Anne sees in either of you. If I were Anne I would just hand you the title of whatever godforsaken place you come from, and be done with it. What is it anyway? Marquis d’ Aisne?”

“Marquis de la Fére!” he cries, his face flushed with fury. He is too flustered to notice the sudden change in her demeanor, how the glimmer of amusement in her eyes turns to astonishment. She knew a de la Fére once. One of the few men she could not lure to her bed. She lost a number of bets over him to Anne back when they were both young, and he was a gentleman in the King’s retinue (1). Her Majesty always thought him impregnable. He is important to the Fronde these days. She is told that he has a son who looks like him. The King’s best friend.

“I didn’t know that title was up for the taking,” she observes quietly.

“It is my mother’s title!” de Renard exclaims without turning to look at her, fumbling with his clothes. “It is mine! It is promised to me!”

“Then I suggest you improve your manners,” she retorts coldly. “Try to live up to its legacy at least. The man who held it was noble…”

“The man who held it is a traitor to France!” he proclaims. “A Frondeur!”

She feigns indifference. “Politics are even more tedious than titles,” she sneers. “You must learn that nothing dampens the mood more than politics. Try to be less banal, darling. It will improve your chances…”

“You think because you were the Queen’s best friend once, you can treat all men like trash…” he begins but she interrupts him with a smile: “I still am her best friend, my darling boy. And no, not all men… Only the ones who bore me.”

He is unable to contain his anger. He imagines crushing her dainty skull against that bed post. He motions towards her but stops, as the door of the room opens slightly, her maid standing discreetly at the threshold.

“Your Grace,” the servant announces. “The Duc d’ Herblay is here, and you asked to be told immediately.”

The lady stands from the bed. “You must leave through the trap door,” she tells de Renard, in a businesslike manner, ignoring his fury. She touches the side of a wall panel decorated with engraved rosebuds, and it opens revealing a passage. She stands by the open trap door impatiently. “It is time for you to leave, de Renard!” He feels incensed, shamed, defeated. He longs to subdue her, show her his power, prove to her that he is the kind of man she would choose as a lover. He lowers his head, and enters the narrow passage. One day… he thinks.

“Madame de Chevreuse (2) will be with you immediately, Monseigneur,” the maid’s voice echoes from the salon at the other side of the half-opened door.

****

“I expect you have significant news for me, Comte de Renard,” the Queen speaks without turning to look at him. “You requested this urgent meeting, and as a result, I am obliged to keep the new ambassador from Venice waiting.” She stands in her oratory before the altar under the painting of the Virgin’s Immaculate Conception.

“It appears, your Majesty, that the Vicomte de Bragelonne does not need my assistance to discredit himself in the eyes of His Majesty and the court,” M. de Renard replies with eagerness, bowing deeply.

“Is it about that actress?” she retorts with disinterest. “The liaison is of no significance. In fact, it adds to his reputation. He is a popular man, Comte. Unlike you. Is that all you have to say to me?” She sounds as if she is about to dismiss him.

“No, no Your Majesty!” he interjects, knowing well that interrupting a vexed Queen is a grave mistake. “There is more. That actress is dead.”

“What of it?” the Queen rebuffs him. She keeps her back turned.

“She was murdered, Your Majesty. Musketeers found her at the wharf by the Port de la Tournelle. The story is all over the Marais…”

“Murdered…?”  She turns to look at him for the first time.

“By a lover, they say,” he continues with excitement.

The Queen motions towards him, her tone vexed and exasperated. “So? Actresses have many lovers. This one was no exception. You offer me nothing, Comte…”

“And yet, Your Majesty, word is that de Bragelonne was the last person to see her alive. That there was a fight in her rooms the night she died…”

“With de Bragelonne?”

“Who else could it be?” he hurries to assure her with excitement. 

“Can you provide any proof, Comte? Do you expect that His Majesty will consider unfounded allegations against one of his favorites? I can assure you that he will not, as I would not, if faced with similar news. Friends of the King always elicit envy, and vicious gossip.”

“The Vicomte is kept in the Musketeer Garrison, Your Majesty. I am told by the Chevalier du Guitaut, General du Vallon’s second aide-de camp that he will remain with Captain d’ Artagnan for some time. Is that not the best proof of his guilt? Wouldn’t Captain d’ Artagnan protect the son of his best friend, Your Majesty?”

She crosses her arms in front of her chest, her French slightly inflected. Had the Comte de Renard been a closer observer of his Queen, he would have recognized this as a sign that she is furious, and that this audience is about to end. “The fact that the Captain protects his friend’s son proves only that he cares about this young man, as he should. Rumors often lead to innocent people being lynched by angry mobs, or worse. Do you expect me and His Majesty to be complicit in such atrocities, Comte? Do you expect us to get involved in the death of some actress from the street, and take sides against a nobleman?”

She turns her back again, and he bows for it is the only way he can hide his wrath. Calculating shrew, he thinks. He knows her kind. The Duchess de Chevreuse, her old friend, is the same: a demanding, calculating shrew! He clenches his jaw. If this was not his Queen he’d reply with his fist.

“You promised much but you offer me nothing,” the Queen sneers. “Return only if and when you do. Otherwise our alliance ends here…” She waves for him to leave.

He bows, feigning obedience, “Your Majesty…”

She does not even condescend to turn her head.

****

“Did you hear all this, Monsieur?” she asks the moment de Renard leaves her oratory.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” M. de Comminges replies walking into the room from a trap door hidden behind a tapestry. “There is more to his story,” he adds. “The Vicomte Bragelonne is indeed a suspect, and Captain d’ Artagnan keeps him in the Garrison to protect him. But there is another suspect…”

She turns, a faint glimmer at the edges of her eyes. She knows who the second suspect is, of course, but she remains silent, expecting de Comminges to tell her.

“How does the name Lucien Grimaud sound, Your Majesty?” he asks, confirming what she already knows.

She smiles. She is pleased. “It sounds promising,” she replies.

“There is no proof at the moment against either of these two men. Truth be told, it could have been any one of du Pouget’s many lovers. De Bragelonne will be hard to incriminate, Your Majesty. He is a nobleman in France, and a peer in Venice. The new Ambassador from Venice waiting for Your Majesty is his cousin. M. de Bragelonne is also the King’s favorite. Besides, many at court would not even consider the death of an actress a crime, and no judge would dare move against him…”

She nods, in affirmation. “However,…” she ventures.

“However, Your Majesty…” de Comminges intones, his mind returning to the day he faced a jeering crowd in the street, defeated by Lucien Grimaud, “…the same is not true for the likes of Lucien Grimaud.”

“Excellent, M. de Comminges,” she retorts, her tone dispassionate. “It is clear we are both of the same mind on this matter. The Captain of the Musketeers is of the same opinion also. I am told he has sent M. de Thierry to interrogate that treasonous thief. I have every confidence in the Captain, and in M. de Thierry.”

That is not exactly what M. de Comminges expected, to be second to the Captain of the Musketeers once again. “I suspect Captain d’ Artagnan would do anything to exonerate his friend’s son,” he remarks, his tone dry.

She finds his bitterness and resentment distasteful but he is a useful dog, ready to do anything to gain a better position. “Captain d’ Artagnan is a better man than you will ever be, M. de Comminges,” she observes. “But you are a better soldier, and we are at war.” He bows. It is not exactly a compliment but it is good enough. “We can make all this work to our advantage,” she adds.

He bows again, looking perplexed. She suddenly wishes she were conferring with d’ Artagnan as she had always done in the past, when she trusted him completely, instead of de Comminges. She misses d’ Artagnan’s quick mind, his clear vision, and his integrity. It is the latter that stands between them now. That, and his adherence to the Musketeer oath, which places him at odds with his Queen. She knows that he has not been exactly loyal. She knows that his wife is not loyal either. It vexes her too that she has to explain everything to the simpleton standing before her now instead of d’ Artagnan. It feels below her to have to do so. “If the Vicomte de Bragelonne is implicated in this murder,” she begins speaking slowly, as if speaking to a child, “if he finds himself in danger, then it is very likely that his father and mother will intervene.” He stares at her, still looking baffled. Do I have to spell it all out? she thinks.

“Oh!” he exclaims suddenly. “I see, Your Majesty! But they have friends, and allies here. At least he does… Why risk coming to Paris?”

It is her turn to stare back at him in disbelief. “Do you have any children, M. de Comminges?” she asks.

“No, Your Majesty!” he declares proudly. “They would be a distraction, and my life is dedicated to serving Your Majesty.”

She smiles. “I thank you for your loyalty M. de Comminges, but if you had children, you would know the answer to my question.”

“Your Majesty believes that the Comte de la Fére and his wife will return to Paris to protect their son?” he inquires with excitement. 

 “I do!” she replies.  

He contemplates for a while, as if something bothers him greatly. “But, if I may Your Majesty,” he finally ventures. “How can we arrest either of them? There is an amnesty…” 

“Ah, M. de Comminges!” she scoffs. “There is no amnesty against murder.” He looks completely confounded, so she is forced to explain again: “You see, despite her connections in Venice, M. de la Fére’s wife is a murderer in France. I have proof of her many crimes myself. Even better still, I have a reliable witness of a murder that the Comtesse committed in her youth against a man of noble birth, a heinous crime for which she was never punished. His politics aside, M. de la Fére harbors and protects a murderer. In that, he too is a guilty man…”

De Comminges bows deeply. “Your Majesty,” he declares, “I shall place men at every gate around Paris!”

“I have every confidence in you, M. de Comminges,” she retorts. “As for Lucien Grimaud,” she adds, “I want you to offer Captain d’ Artagnan your full assistance. It is imperative that he succeeds!”

De Comminges bows again, and she motions to leave the oratory, opening the door that leads to her bedchamber. “Good God!” he hears her exclaim, and hurries behind her.  “Your Majesty!” he shouts, drawing his pistol.

He finds her standing in the middle of her bedchamber perturbed and befuddled. Large wooden crates are all over the room, on chairs and settees, on her vanity table, on her desk, even on her bed! He opens one carefully. It is full of pistols and ammunition stamped with the royal seal: weapons stolen from the Arsenal….

****

“The arrogant Spanish bitch!” de Renard exclaims, throwing himself onto a large sofa, a glass of wine in his hands. The room is spacious, its gold-colored walls ornamented with pilasters holding a low relief entablature that includes a frieze decorated with vines and flowers. The high ceiling is coffered, its domed center showing Apollo chasing the nymph Daphne. The walls are covered with paintings of Dionysus, and his company of Satyrs and Bacchae in deep Arcadian forests. It is a well-lit room, candles burning in tall, elegant gold candelabras, a large fire burning in a marble fireplace framed by the statues of Muses.

“They tend to be that way, don’t they? Women of a certain age,” de Wardes yawns. He is sprawled in a large armchair by the fire his feet spread out, his eyes closed. He looks bored. “That is why I avoid them like the plague. The Spaniard is particularly tedious these days. No matter… It will all be resolved in time. She too will get what she deserves.” He downs his wine, and stares at the light reflected in the elegantly carved glass.

“She threatened to end our alliance!” de Renard cries, his voice high-pitched like that of a petulant child.

“Well, that was to be expected,” de Wardes remarks indifferently. “After all, what did you offer her? Some actress found dead in a ditch…”

“You said it was a good plan!” de Renard insists.

“It is. If you wait. A good plan needs time.” 

“I do not have the luxury of time, de Wardes!” de Renard exclaims. “It has been three months and I’ve achieved nothing. A glance from the King perhaps! Not even a word spoken to me…”

“You try too hard…” de Wardes retorts dismissively. “You are too obvious…”

“What does de Bragelonne do that I do not?”

“He comes from ancient nobility, he is refined, elegantly insolent, pars well with the sword, and now he is a man of a certain reputation. I would say he does quite a bit,” de Wardes sneers, opening his eyes.

“You take his side then?” de Renard springs from the sofa in anger.

“Calm down, and don’t spill your wine on my furniture. It is an exquisite vintage! Galician! It was just delivered,” de Wardes replies calmly. “Remember the score I must settle with de Bragelonne is a serious one. Captain Marceaux, my cousin, was a victim of his father and his father’s friends. Then, de Bragelonne became the first to deflower that vulgar little peach from the Marais. I promised you that I shall destroy him, and I am well on my way. You must like those you want to destroy, de Renard. Adore them even. It is like any other work of art. Look around you in this room. A real artist loves his subject, and takes time with it!”

“So, I assume you love de Guiche at equal measure?” de Renard’s comment is well calculated to hit a nerve. 

“You are a vile snake!” de Wardes exclaims standing from his armchair. He thrusts the elegant glass he holds against the marble of the fireplace, and its shattering sound echoes in the vastness of the room. “I hate de Guiche,” he growls. “I want him dead.”

“Then perhaps you should take your own advice,” de Renard scoffs. He throws himself back onto the sofa, playing with what little remains of the wine at the bottom of his glass. “Or perhaps,” he adds, “I can deliver de Guiche to you in exchange for de Bragelonne…” He is determined to prove himself to all those who doubt him, especially de Wardes, who is a peer and whose friendship ensures access to the King.

“You couldn’t!” de Wardes exclaims peevishly. “You are not his equal, de Renand!”

 “I could be… if I had my inheritance!” he retorts incensed.

De Wardes laughs. “Your inheritance is a joke. Your only access to society and to His Majesty at the moment is through me. Remember this. If you ever manage to be included in the King’s retinue to Orléans you will owe it to me!” He stops as the door opens, and a servant walks into the room. “An urgent message for the Comte de Renard,” he announces. The young man extends a reluctant hand. The seal is familiar. It is his mother’s seal. 

 

> _“Beloved,_
> 
> _I write in haste for I must return to Her Majesty. Rejoice!  You will be part of His Majesty’s retinue to Orléans where He shall visit His uncle, and select the members of His new Court and that of His new Queen, for He is to be married soon, despite His strong affection for Mademoiselle Mancini. Her Majesty announced the news to me just now. It is beginning my sweet love. Your ascension, and my revenge. Her Majesty implied the murderous whore and her husband are about to be arrested. When they are, she needs me as a witness to all their crimes. Rejoice my beautiful Marquis. We are almost there!_
> 
> _Your adoring,_
> 
> _Catherine”_
> 
>  
> 
>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Athos’ early life before he became a Musketeer, as a gentleman in the court of Louis XIII is described in “Past Forgotten, Past Remembered.” 
> 
> (2) Marie de Rohan (Marie Aimée; December 1600 – 12 August 1679) was a French courtier and political activist, known for being at the center of many of the court intrigues in the court of Louis XIII and during the Fronde. In various sources, she is often known simply as Madame de Chevreuse. Dumas makes her a significant character, as Queen Anne’s best friend, Aramis’ lover, and a Musketeer secret ally, in “The Three Musketeers” although she never appears in that novel. In “Twenty Years After” we find out she is the mother of Raoul de Bragelonne after a spending a night with Athos. She is also a Frondeur (like her historical counterpart) and is involved in all sorts of intrigues. We find her involved in the conspiracy to replace Louis XIV with his twin brother in “Man in the Iron Mask.” In this story here, given all the changes vs. Dumas because of plotlines in the BBC series that we try to maintain as much as possible, she is written based not on Dumas but on her historical counterpart, as a political conspirator, and a woman involved in court intrigues. Given Athos’ and Rochefort’s ancestry as developed in “Past Forgotten, Past Remembered,” she is Rochefort’s cousin from his father side, and Athos’ distant cousin from his mother’s side. Since the Musketeer de Rohan is Rochefort’s son, he is also related to her. The de Rohan family was one of the most ancient noble families in France (from Brittany) with many “branches.” There is indeed a de Rohan-Rochefort, branch which was the inspiration for the genealogy I invented for Rochefort and his son. According to Dumas, Athos’ maternal line descended from the de Rohan family, so for Athos’ genealogy I followed Dumas.


	66. No Ordinary Duchess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucien is summoned to a meeting where one part of the puzzle is solved ...but more questions are raised. He joins forces with an interesting figure....

Lucien strolled into the morning room. The room was warm and light with the sun streaming through the tall windows looking out to the park. His wife was sitting at the table reading a paper, the remains of an early morning meal on a plate next to her. She sipped a drink with a lemony fragrance as she read. She was dressed for the day, her gloves lying on the polished table next to her.

‘Where are you going looking so beautiful this morning?’ he asked. He kissed her forehead and slid into the chair next to her. Immediately a servant entered the room and placed a plate in front of him and a glass with the hot sweet thick brew Yusuf made for him. He lifted the glass to take a drink.

‘You look pleased with yourself,’ she remarked with a bemused look. He leaned close to her.

‘The question, my love, is if you are pleased with me,’ he had a sultry tone to his voice.

‘You fell asleep!’ she teased. ‘Why do men fall asleep?’

‘Men?’ his hand paused halfway to his mouth as he feigned jealous shock. He set the glass down with a decided thump.  
‘Madame! What would you know of what ‘men’ do?’ She giggled, ‘I’ve heard it said.’

‘Really? As your husband I must demand to know who imparts these scandalous remarks to you!’ She laughed again and he thought he had never heard a lovelier sound.

‘Besides - I do not always fall asleep,’ he said as he carefully separated a piece of cooked fish on his plate. ‘although I should! He chewed slowly, his hooded eyes devilish and daring her, ‘I do the work of Hercules in pursuit of your happi…’ she giggled and covered his mouth with her hand to silence him.

‘Stop shameless man! The servants will hear you!’ He kissed her fingers, ‘I seem to recall that sometime in the night...’ She smiled and lowered her eyes, remembering his strong arms and soft kisses that brought her slowly awake.

‘Enough of this,’ she stroked his cheek with a loving touch, ‘I must not be late for my appointment with Madame Bertin. I need a new dress. I am going to the palace soon.’ He was surprised, ‘what?’

‘The Duchess is meeting with the First Minister. She hopes he will help her persuade the Queen to resume her interest in her league of charities.’

‘And she is bringing you along?’ Lucien said skeptically. Sophia laughed, ‘it is part of her plan to rehabilitate my reputation.’

‘Perhaps she should bring me along,’ he was amused. ‘I’m the one who needs to rescue my reputation.’

‘You,’ said his wife pointedly, ‘need to return what does not belong to you.’ He grunted and waved his hand dismissively, ‘all in good time my love.’

‘We are running out of time,’ she started, but he refused to be drawn into the discussion and leaned over to kiss her soundly and silent.

A soft knock at the door and the house steward entered, ‘Sir – the mail has arrived.’ He set a silver plate in front of Lucien and quietly left. He passed several letters to her and looked at the others.

'From Suzanne,’ said Sophia happily. She broke the seal and opened the letter and several small parchments fell out onto the table. She picked them up smiling and looked at the sketches.

‘I think these are for you,’ she said and slid them to Lucien. He peered at the drawings and picked up one studying it closely. He passed it to Sophia.

‘I like this one,’ he said. ‘She captures something in people.’

Sophia looked at the drawing of a young working man standing in the back of a farm wagon leaning down to take a cup of water from a young woman. They were both laughing, their flirtation evident in the intensity of his gaze and the way she held her hand to her hip and tilted her head to give him her full smile.

‘Goodness,’ Sophia was mildly surprised at her daughter’s artwork. ‘She seems to have a new subject.’ Lucien drew the drawing back to him. ‘It is a rather good expression of their interest.’

She widened her eyes. ‘I would say it is most certainly is an expression of her interest.’

He looked peevish. ‘She’s too young for that,’ he grumbled and stood picking up the rest of the mail, ‘are you arranging for a new dress for Suzanne?’

‘More than one,’ Sophia said. ‘And for the others. She will be here soon. I can hardly wait. There are so many things I want to show her.’

He kissed her again, ‘I favor her in blue, not gold – it makes her look sallow,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in the library for a while.’

>  
He sat behind his massive desk and read the letter for the second time. The Duchess of Aiguillon, Marie Madeleine de Vignerot du Pont de Courlay, requested his presence at her home for a meeting with the lawyer M Elie Diodati and his senior investigator M de Reynie. They had news of their investigation. The letter did not specify that Sophia not attend with him, but it was certainly plain enough that she was asking him to come alone.

He heard the carriage pull away from the front of the house and roll down the front drive toward the street beyond. He pushed himself back and stood, striding to the door. He was curious to know what the lawyer and investigator had discovered. He was more curious as to why the Duchess had asked him to come – alone.

>  
It was a beautiful old house, not the biggest or the most grandiose. It spoke to a long line of nobility and the sensible nature and value for tradition that marked the lady who lived there. The Duchess of Aiguillon was a devout woman known for her many patronages and charitable work. As she grew older, she withdrew from the active social life of the Court and devoted herself to charitable service and the Daughters of Charity, working with Father de Paul and Madame de Marillac on behalf of foundlings, orphans and the poor.

The Duchess had extended her friendship to them as they searched the orphanages for their daughter. Her visit to his wharf had been a surprise – unorthodox for a lady of her status. Now he was summoned to her home. This lady was no ordinary duchess.

He rode his horse through a small but well-kept park to the front of the house. He handed the reins to a stable boy and mounted the few stairs, the door opening for him immediately. The servant ushered him inside and up a central staircase. Their footsteps were hushed on the thick carpet lining the hallway. The servant opened the door and let him into the room.

‘Her Grace will be with you in a moment,’ the servant murmured and withdrew quietly.

Lucien looked around the elegant room. Tall windows were on a far wall, heavy curtains pulled to each side to let in the morning sun. A fire was burning in a large white marble fronted fireplace to his left, the wall to the left of the fireplace covered with portraits of ancestors and to the right a large tapestry, a richly colored scene from the Act of the Apostles that filled the wall. A thick patterned carpet covered most of the parquet floor, blue silk upholstered sofas and chairs with delicate carved legs placed in the center of the room. A large secretary desk, its front featuring an elaborate design of rich dark inlaid woods flanked by two chairs, over which hung large ancestral portraits. It was a home that spoke of the history of the generations of family that had lived there and in particular, the religious devotion of its current occupant. Lucien strolled to the window to look out on the ornamental garden in the rear of the house.

The Duchess of Aiguillon entered quietly and stood inside the door watching the man on the other side of the room. He was standing with his hands behind his back, his dark hair sweeping his collar, the strong features of his face in profile. As was his habit, he was dressed simply in a dark elegantly tailored tunic fitted to his tall muscular frame, his boots highly polished. He was quietly observing the garden below, yet he seemed to fill the room with an authoritative presence– of strength and command. He had not heard her enter and when she made a small sound in her throat, he turned immediately to face her. For a moment they stood and regarded each other and then she smiled, and he walked to her and bowed.

‘Your Grace,’ he said. She held out her small hand to him and he took it gently in his own.

‘It is good of you to come M Grimaud,’ she said. ‘I hope I have not intruded on your day.’

‘I am at your service,’ he replied and led the gentle woman to a sofa in front of the fire for her to sit. She waved him to a chair opposite her. He sat and folded his hands into his lap and waited with a faint smile of curiosity. She suddenly realized that this was the first time she was alone with him and regretted that she had not thought to ask him to arrive earlier. They might have walked in the garden he had been admiring.

‘M Diodati and M la Reynie will be here soon,’ she told him. He nodded and waited again for her to continue.

‘They have a report they wish to discuss on what they have learned.’ She paused, ‘I believe they have uncovered something quite different than the original intent of their investigation.’

Lucien looked puzzled and raised his brows. He was about to ask a question when the door opened, and the servant announced the lawyer and his investigator.

‘Good to see you M Grimaud,’ said M Diodati. ‘I am pleased Her Grace had to foresight to ask you to join us. Allow me to introduce M Nicholas de la Reynie. He will make the report of his investigations so far.’

An hour later, the four people in the room sat silent and – confused. The only part of the report that was not confusing was the conclusion that the baby the Duchess de la Croix had given birth to at Royamount Abbey was not Cecille de Pouget.  
But the rest of the report made little sense.

‘What does it mean?’ the Duchess asked the lawyer. She picked up the top sheet of the report and studied the words on the page. The investigator placed his hands in his lap and waited for his employer to answer.

‘Sister Mary Beatrice was among several nuns who were sent to Bicetre during the years in which we are interested. And – they were also all called,’ there was a note of sarcasm for this last word, ‘or sent away.’ He earned a frown from the Duchess, but he forged ahead.

‘In any event they left Bicetre for other charitable houses. Sister Mary Beatrice was among the last of these nuns to leave,’ he concluded.

She remembered Sister Mary Beatrice – an affable woman, generous with her laughter and kindness to abandoned children. It wasn’t long after the current Abbess had come to Bicetre that the good Sister’s service was better suited elsewhere. Or at least that was how the Abbess explained it to her.

‘You seem to see their departures are connected,’ the Duchess observed.

‘Aside from their occupation and their location – there is little similar between them,’ M la Reynie answered her this time. ‘Diligent in their work and devout to their calling but one was gregarious, and one was somber, and another liked to play games while another only preferred to read…and so on. They were all nuns, but they were not alike.’

M Diodati tapped the document with his pointing finger, ‘but they did share one thing.’ He looked at the Duchess and waited. She answered for him.

‘They noticed that children seemed …’ she hesitated as though it were too hard to say or too unbelievable, ‘to go missing.’

He nodded, ‘not just that they went missing, but they noticed how many children were runaways, or afflicted with sickness and died or became apprentices. They did not work in the sick rooms and the Abbess handled the apprentices.’

‘They shared two more things,’ he held up one finger, ‘they asked questions,’ he held up a second finger, ‘and they were sent to other charitable houses.’

‘Someone would have noticed if this seemed unusual or had some devious intent, ‘said the Duchess with an uncharacteristic tone of irritation. She felt a chill and shivered slightly. She glanced up at M Grimaud who was standing by the fireplace. He was watching her intently.

‘You insinuate a deliberate plan of some devious nature. The Abbess may be stern, but her character is impeccable. You impugn a nun!’ She was filled with distress at these questions and veiled accusations against an Abbess. She picked up the document again and set it down again. But – were there children…missing?

She touched her cheek in an abstract gesture. Had she and Madame de Marillac discussed the relocation of nuns from Bicetre? She could not remember – she and Louise had been so busy in those days organizing the Daughters of Charity – setting up the foundling homes and improving the orphanages. Bicetre had been particularly challenging. They were energized by their mission…but had they missed something?

‘Perhaps the count is wrong,’ she suggested hopefully looking at the two men. M la Reynie leaned forward eagerly, ‘exactly Your Grace,’ he said while M Diodati directed a slight frown at him to temper his remarks and his enthusiasm.

‘Are there other records kept by the Daughters of Charity, aside from the ledgers of the Abbesses, that we could compare?’

>  
She stretched her feet toward the fire to warm them and glanced at Lucien. He was standing to the side of the fireplace, bracing one hand against the mantle, swirling a glass of wine in the other hand. The house was quiet, but her mind was not. The meeting with the investigator and M Diodati created more and different questions than answers. That is, except for evidence that Mlle Pouget was not the daughter of the Duchess de la Croix.

She glanced again at Lucien. He had asked few questions and made no remarks during M la Reynie’s recitation. His face was composed into stern angles of deepest thought. She took in a sharp breath as her heart suddenly ached for him and Sophia. What would this news mean to her – to be thrust back into the uncertainty of not knowing if her daughter lived or not. Sophia’s heartache was a mother’s suffering for the unknown fate of her child. She understood it because she had also known that heartache. She had worked hard, she and Louise and Father de Paul. Bicetre was to have been the place to offer shelter, comfort and perhaps even love from nuns like Sister Mary Beatrice.

But it would seem she had failed in that duty.

She looked up to see Lucien watching her closely. She gave a weak smile and tried not to let the tears that threatened fall onto her cheeks. She would tell him he need not stay any longer and release him from any further attendance on her.

He strode to a side table and poured brandy into a glass and returned to sit next to her. He pressed her hand around the glass.

‘Drink,’ he said. She looked at him in surprise. It didn’t sound like a request. He nodded at her.

‘You are very pale,’ he said. ‘You have had a shock.’ He placed his fingers under the glass and made an upward movement. ‘Drink,’ he said firmly.

Unexpectedly she felt a bubble of hysterical laughter rising and she barely managed to suppress it. Good heavens – what was wrong with her? She had no business giggling at anything. She took in a deep breath and was suddenly grateful for his solicitous attention.

‘Yes sir,’ she said with wry obedience and took a large sip. It burned on the way down, but it felt good – and restorative. She took another sip. He pulled the glass away.

‘No getting drunk,’ he said. ‘We have work to do.’

‘I don’t get... drunk!’ she was slightly horrified at the suggestion that a lady of her years would…get drunk! And startled that he had spoken so to her.

‘Good,’ he said with an amused smile. ‘I shall remember that you can hold your drink.’ She clucked at him disapproving, but he had succeeded in pulling her out of a very black and paralyzing mood. She sighed deeply.

‘What do you mean? what work?’ she asked.

‘You said there were other records and accounts to examine.’ She nodded and went on to explain how Madame de Marillac had brought order to their work. Various accounts could be retrieved and records to locate. Questions could be put to Abbesses in other homes.

‘Excellent,’ said Lucien. ‘M la Reynie will accompany you. He will bring his very fine mind to the task and an objective eye. He is most thorough man.’

He smiled at her, ‘I will send a man with you to ensure security.’

She cocked one eyebrow at him, ‘one of those very big German men?’ Lucien grinned, ‘for your security? the biggest one I can find!’

She took another sip of her brandy and said boldly, ‘he won’t fit into the carriage or am I to ride with the driver?’ Lucien laughed – surprised and pleased at her unexpected display of humor. She was rallying to the task.

‘He will sit with the driver or more likely ride alongside. M la Reynie has the backside of a man who would prefer a carriage seat.’ They looked at each other and laughed together at the memory of the thin and gangly frame of M la Reynie.

He walked to the secretary desk and opened it pulling out parchment, quill and ink. He pulled a chair to it and began to write.

‘We must plan your itinerary carefully. I am making a list of the villages you will need to visit. You cannot stay in tavern inns, so you must write immediately to the families in the great houses along the way. They will happily accommodate you and M la Reynie.’

‘And my guardian?’ she asked. ‘What is to become of him?’

‘Martin is not only the size of a horse,’ said Lucien, ‘he can sleep like one – standing up if needed.’ The Duchess frowned at him. ‘I will assure him a place in the kitchen,’ she said firmly. Lucien smiled. He had no doubt of it.

‘Tell your maid to pack sensibly. You may need to do some walking and sit in drafty rooms going over accounts….’

His deep voice went on listing the details of the task she was undertaking, but she stopped listening to watch him. He was directing every detail of what she was to do. His intelligent mind was organizing and leaping ahead to account for unknown or unplanned events and contingencies. He was writing down questions to ask, directions to take from information gathered. He assumed command – as though he had been born to it.

He rose from the desk and returned to the sofa with the parchment. He examined her face and nodded satisfied. ‘You look better.’

‘Some would say that my age and status disqualify me from this journey and that others should go in my place. They would say it is not suitable for me.’ He raised his brow and nodded thoughtfully.

‘Would you prefer that?’ he watched her closely. She shrugged. She felt a heavy weight on her shoulders. She glanced back to him and took the parchment from his fingers.

‘I do not believe you are a woman who gives up easily. Not when you’ve given your heart to something – as you did in building Bicetre,’ he said. ‘You will know where to look. You will gain strength from doing it.’

‘Sophia would go with you,’ he said, ‘if that is what you wish.’ She shook her head firmly.

‘Your daughter Suzanne is coming soon. Her mother should be here. Besides, it may be too hard – remembering that your child was there.’ Lucien nodded, relieved. He had not wanted Sophia involved with it.

‘I will join you as soon as I can,’ he said. ‘I am going to look into matters here.’

‘What matters?’ she asked boldly. ‘How are you looking into it?’ She looked anxious, ‘you must be careful!’

He smiled at her concern, ‘with pirate moves,’ he answered with a teasing glint in his eyes.

‘Oh that,’ she waved her hand and sipped again at the brandy.

‘Have I not shocked you Madame.? he feigned concern. She was amused and pointed a finger at him.

‘I managed the household of Richelieu – there is little that can shock me.’

>  
The Duchess of Aigouillon sat up in her bed. She would give up on sleep tonight - her mind was racing with too many random notions. She wrapped a heavy robe around her and walked from her bed to the fireplace. She knelt and picked up a small log to set on the banked fire, careful to do it as silently as possible. She did not want to wake her maid in the adjoining room. There would be consternation to deal with, a summons for the house steward and calls for drink or food or perhaps the maid should summon the doctor. All she needed was her solitude. She sat in a large comfortable chair in front of the fireplace, drawing the heavy robe around her.

Children were missing from Bicetre orphanage. She held no illusions that these marginal and vulnerable young lives warranted interest in this world. She needed to act and do whatever she could to find answers. She stood and walked to her bed and lay down. If she couldn’t sleep, she could at least rest. She would need her wits for the day ahead  
.  
She closed her eyes, her thoughts drifting into a sleepy dream – of a baby crying in an empty abbey, no one to hear the cries. She hurried through twisting cold stone hallways and rooms searching and searching…


	67. Phantoms

**Author: Mordaunt**

_“If thou love me, take heed of loving me…”_   
_(John Donne 1572-1631, The Prohibition)_

 

“You have a letter,” he said, and handed her a sealed envelope signed by Lucien Grimaud.

He could see her hands tremble as she read. She grew pale. “Alessandra, what is it?” he asked. He worried she might be unwell again. She was weeping when he entered the bedchamber although she pretended not to. “What is it?” he insisted but she did not reply. She crushed the letter in her hands, and closed her eyes. He called the nurse to the door, and handed her the sleeping infant. “Have Monsieur Maillard send for Dr. Basot in the morning,” he told her. “My lady is unwell.”

He hurried next to his wife. She was curled up in bed. He could see the heaving of her back beneath the covers. He could hear the sound of her breaths, drawn slowly as she wept. He touched her gently, and she did not recoil, so he slipped his arm under her waist, and pulled her closer to him. She buried her face in his chest, tears bleeding through his shirt. She felt hot, as if with fever. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her, stroking her back. He decided to ask nothing at all, but just hold her until the sobs subsided, until she decided to tell him.

When he opened his eyes, it was before dawn, and she was not beside him. The fire was just embers, and the room was cold. She was seated in an armchair looking out the window, her shoulders covered with a blanket. She looked tired and pale. She turned the moment she heard him stir. “Did I wake you?” She smiled feebly. “Go back to sleep, Athos it is early,” she urged him.

He moved aside in the bed and lifted the covers. “Come to bed, Alessandra,” he said gently. “You should be in bed. It is cold…” She stood and walked back slowly on tiptoes. She felt freezing cold next to him. “Goodness!” he exclaimed covering her “are these your feet?” He enveloped her in his embrace, and she nestled in his arms. He could feel her breath against his skin, her body growing warmer. He buried his face into her silk black curls kissing her. They remained together thus until the house began to stir: familiar noises, as the servants started to move about, the stables opening for the morning, the hounds barking in the distance. There was a tap on the door. “The baby was just fed, and is sleeping again, Your Grace” Alessandra’s servant whispered. “The doctor sent word he will arrive within the hour.”

“You should not have called him,” she said, sitting up in bed slowly. “There is nothing wrong with me…” she protested, but it was impossible not to see how the pallor of her face clashed with her words. He slipped on his doublet, and sat by her side of the bed. “I worry because I do not know. Because I do not understand. But I want to understand, Alessandra…” She pulled him close to her, smoothing his long curls with her fingers and kissed him. “You must be patient,” she whispered.

The day moved fast. One of the horses had to be bled, and he had promised to visit Abbé Peron at the presbytery to look over the plans for the new addition to the church in the estate. When he returned, it was early afternoon, and a large carriage had just stopped in front of the house, the coat of arms on its side unmistakable. He dismounted, as the footman was helping the young passenger to the door.

“I left behind a child, and here I see a young lady!” he said and she turned, her lovely features animated by the sheer joy of seeing him. “Uncle Olivier!” she exclaimed, rushing back, down the stairs, and into his arms. He lifted her up, and kissed her on the forehead tenderly. “Lord, you have grown,” he said, setting her back on her feet. She beamed. “You think, uncle? Have I? Maman still calls me a child…”

“I see a beautiful young lady! Shall we go in, Mademoiselle du Vallon?” he proposed formally, offering her his arm. “I long to meet the beautiful Bianca,” she replied with a sweet smile, taking the arm he offered, “and oh, uncle I cannot not lie… I am very excited to meet that intriguing lady, your wife. I have heard so much…”

 

*****

 “She is a lovely young woman, curious, bright, loving… She is wonderful with Bianca…” Alessandra remarks. He has removed his linen shirt, water from his bath still glistening on his skin, his hair damp.  “She thinks you are intriguing,” he replies slipping on a clean shirt for the night, and fastening the strings around his neck. “When I last saw her, she was a child,” he continues, as he rolls up his sleeves, “and her mother complained she liked books too much. She has changed since but not her love of books, thank God…” He pauses, realizing he is speaking to himself. She rests her head against the pillows her green eyes fixed on him, her expression inscrutable.

“What…?” he stammers, self-conscious and embarrassed.

“Nothing,” she says. “I like looking at you…”

He bows with a smile accepting the compliment, and sits by her side of the bed. “Always a pleasure to indulge you my lady,” he teases her, and she smiles feebly. There is sadness in her smile that he cannot penetrate, and it troubles him greatly, as much as that letter from Lucien Grimaud, whose specter stands between them. The hold this man has on his wife, Athos cannot understand. He wants Grimaud gone, erased, out of his life, and hers… 

The next morning when he wakes up, he finds her dressed, pacing at the other side of the room. “Alessandra, Dr. Bassot advised that you should stay in bed for at least another week,” he says. “I cannot,” she retorts. She looks pale and tired, again. She keeps pacing up and down the room while he dresses, as if she is trying to decide something important. “You should read this,” she says finally, handing him the letter… 

Lucien Grimaud’s letter…

He sinks in the armchair next to the fireplace, while he reads it. His hand holding the letter falls onto his lap, and he raises his eyes: “I am going to Paris,” is all he can say. His voice, always collected and restrained, now betrays anger and anguish.

“I want to come with you,” she replies. 

“Alessandra, you cannot ride nor travel. You should not even be standing. You had a baby three days ago. You have been very ill for months. You almost died…”

She sits across from him, “I hate this…” She sounds angry and frustrated. “This weakness…”

“It’s not weakness,” he leans towards her, and presses her hand. “What matters now is that both our children are safe. Bianca here with you. Raoul in Paris with me. What will happen if both of us get arrested entering Paris? What will happen to our daughter? For I have no doubt they will arrest us. Their amnesty means nothing. The only thing that kept us safe until now has been Raoul’s good standing with the King. If he loses that, Alessandra none of us is safe, including Raoul. You must stay here. If you get word that I am arrested in Paris you must leave for Venice with Bianca immediately…”

She nods in agreement. There is more than anger in her eyes. There is fear. He can feel it in the way she presses his hand, in her breathing, in the pallor of her face. 

“Our children will be safe,” he says. He moves closer to her, kneeling at her feet, and cups her face in his hands. “This is an oath, not a promise.”

She lowers her head, their brows touching. “Promise me you will not fight with him, Athos,” she whispers.

He springs to his feet. “You cannot ask me that!” he exclaims. “He almost killed our son! The only reason he did not is that a Musketeer intervened!”

“In his letter he says he did not know…” she falters. What can possibly justify Lucien’s actions? He attacked her son intending to kill him…

“Good God, Alessandra!” Athos’ fury fills the room, and it suffocates her. He notices it immediately and pauses, trying to regain his composure. He kneels before her again. Her head is lowered and her eyes closed. She is choked by silent sobs, and tears she refuses to shed.

He presses her hands in his. They are freezing cold. “Sweetheart, why is this man so important…?” he asks, his tone soft and tender again.

“Don’t ask that please…” she whispers. “He is angry, and hurt just as I am. He lost a daughter…” she looks up, tears glistening in her green eyes, along with a question that remains unasked.

“I knew nothing about this daughter, Alessandra,” he replies to her silent inquiry. “He mentioned something about it the night he was here, when we brought you to Bragelonne from St. Denis. I could not understand his meaning then. I never knew anything about any daughter… I never took his daughter from him or from Sophia, although God knows I probably would have, had I known…” he lowers his head. “I will not lie to you… I would. Just like Captain de Treville. But I did not.”

“He is a good father. Sophia loves him…” she ventures.

“He is a murderer…” he retorts.

“So am I…” she says, a bitter smile on her lips.

He brushes the hair off her face and kisses her brow, her eyes, her mouth. “I will not harm him, I promise you…” he whispers.

He rides off before sunrise the next day. Their plan is simple: ride beyond Paris, find the road that connects the city with Calais, and then enter the city pretending to be an English lord, arriving from England. He rides fast, changing horses at inns on the way. Once on the road from Calais he speaks only English, pretending not to understand any French. He reaches Paris early in the morning of the following day. It feels odd, seeing it from a distance, this city he thought he had left behind for good…

 

****

“I am asking again,” M. de Thierry sounds exasperated. “Did the black carriage enter through this gate, or not?”

“Don’t know what to tell you, Monsieur, there was a blizzard,” the guard looks embarrassed. He is young, younger than de Thierry, a member of the small militia that is left to the Fronde. “It never passed through the gate. I am sure of it…  I swear, Monsieur, it was here one moment and disappeared the next. Like an apparition.”

“Or perhaps you let it pass without stopping it, and now you want me to believe this ridiculous story that it was some phantom carriage…” de Thierry interjects. “Do you know what the penalty is for letting a carriage enter the city without following proper procedures? Do you know what the penalty is for lying to an investigation conducted by His Majesty’s Musketeers?” he threatens. He knows he can be very persuasive when using this tone of voice…

The young man looks terrified. “I am telling the truth…” he mumbles.

“Ah! De Thierry!” M. de Comminges exclaims dismounting from his horse alongside a group of his men. “You will learn nothing from their sorry lot! The army of the people, indeed,” he scoffs. “They are scared of their own shadow. Ignorant, superstitious idiots!”

De Thierry bows, and de Comminges pats him on the back with great familiarity. “How goes it, over there in that Garrison? Solving murders is not exactly Musketeer business…”

“We are the ones who found the victim,” M. de Thierry retorts, his tone formal and restrained. He does not appreciate M. de Comminge’s affability. “Someone ought to seek some justice for that young woman…” he adds.

“Pfff…” de Comminges scoffs. “Some actress found dead in the river. Happens all the time… But your Captain may have other interests in this matter…”

“The Captain’s only interest is to protect the King…” de Thierry interjects.

“Of course… Of course…!” de Comminges chuckles, his tone patronizing. “Her Majesty personally asked me to assist your Captain, for I understand,” he adds in a conspiratorial voice, coming closer to de Thierry, “that it all has to do with that King of Paris, whose head everyone would like to see on a spike. He is now openly mocking us all: the Musketeers, the army, even the Queen! He left some of the weapons he stole from the Armory in Her Majesty’s private apartments! The nerve!” De Thierry takes a step back, standing away from de Comminges, who nevertheless continues, completely oblivious of the young man’s uneasiness.

 “Her Majesty confided that you have already interrogated the man!” he exclaims with admiration. “You are Her Majesty’s favorite, as you well know. She follows all your accomplishments, and she trusts you more than anyone…”

M. de Thierry bows. “I am honored by Her Majesty’s trust, and attention, M. de Comminges.”

“Well, then…” de Comminges says. “I believe my friend that you can serve Her Majesty even better if you let me know what you discover. Not about that actress,” he sneers, “that is a waste of time, if you ask me. But, you know…keep me informed about all you find concerning the man we all want to see arrested and gone for good.”

It is clear to M. de Thierry now, what de Comminges’ feigned familiarity was all about. He detests de Comminges. The man used to be a Red Guard under Estienne de Marcheaux, the last Captain of that regiment. De Thierry has no doubt that de Comminges never forgave the Musketeers for the demise of his old regiment. He knows that de Comminges craves Captain d’ Artagnan’s position. He also has no doubt that de Comminges thinks him young, naïve, and impressionable. It is opportunity to use all this arrogance against the man, de Thierry decides.

“We are still investigating, as you can see,” he shrugs, giving him an innocent look. “But tell me, M. de Comminges, why are you here at the Richelieu Gate? Guarding the gates of Paris is not really the business of the Queen’s Guard.”

“Ah… truer words were never spoken, dear boy!” de Comminges exclaims. “But we are not here to guard the city… We just want to make sure certain people do not enter…”

“Certain people… such as?” de Thierry ventures.

“I am going to tell you this,” de Comminges whispers, “to prove how much I trust you, and because everyone knows how much you detest that peacock, de Bragelonne. I do not blame you at all. I cannot imagine having to put up with him in your Garrison…”

“Oh yes, he is indeed extremely vexing,” de Thierry whispers, feigning the same conspiratorial tone. “I am honored by your trust, M. de Comminges…”

“Since, as we both know, de Bragelonne is a suspect in this murder, it follows that whore his mother or, if we are lucky, his treasonous father may show up… 

“I see…” de Thierry replies pretending to be impressed. “A brilliant plan!”

“Yes, indeed!” de Comminges exclaims with pride. “Godier! Vigneron! He calls two of his men, who approach, reining in their horses. “You remain here and follow your orders!”  He pats de Thierry on the back again. “Well, then dear friend! It was good to have this talk with you! Men of your caliper are rare. I’d say join my regiment but perhaps one day soon I will join yours!” he adds laughing heartily. De Thierry smiles feebly, and bows touching the brim of his hat, as de Comminges jumps on his saddle, and gallops away with the rest of his men.

 “Your name!” he hears the young guard at the gate utter very slowly. “You. Must. Tell. Me. Your. Name!” He spells out the words carefully to a cavalier, who gestures that he does not understand.

 “What do you need?” the cavalier asks in English. “Do you need my name?” He is cloaked, his hat lowered, hiding his face. “I am Lord de Winter,” the cavalier says. “Lord. De. Winter.” It would make a funny story: the English lord trying to enter Paris not knowing a single word of French. But there is something about this lord. Something odd. Something familiar. 

De Thierry reins in his horse, and approaches the guard unobserved. “Where do you come from?” the guard asks, and the lord replies, “I come from Calais” in such bad French, that the young guard raises his hands exasperated.

“What is happening over there?” one of de Comminge’s men exclaims, noticing the commotion at the gate.

It cannot be, de Thierry tells himself as he walks closer. He has seen this man before. He looked the same, his face half hidden under a large hat. It was a winter night, and this man was riding ahead of the Musketeers to protect a crowd gathered at Les Halles to listen to the woman called Sylvie, the one who spoke for the people. It is this same image of the man de Thierry has preserved in memory since that night: the phantom of the father he has never known…

“He comes from Calais!” de Thierry interrupts the guard’s futile questioning. “He is Lord de Winter. My Captain expects him at the Garrison, and you are delaying him with your stupid questions!” 

The guard looks at once baffled and terrified. “I apologize, Monsieur!” he stammers. “I was trying to do what you told me to do…”

“I will have none of your excuses, Monsieur!” de Thierry retorts feigning anger. “I will not report you this time, but it is your last chance!” He jumps onto his horse, and waves at de Comminges’ men in the distance. “All is fine here!” he calls out, and they bow touching the brims of their hats.

“Follow me Milord,” he tells the cavalier in English. “The Captain waits.”

“I am not English…” the cavalier confides the moment they distance themselves from the Richelieu Gate, riding towards the Louvre.

“I know,” de Thierry replies.

“And your Captain is not expecting me,” he adds.

“No, but that is where you were going. Besides,” the young Musketeer says, “my Captain will be very happy to see you…”

“You know me then?” the cavalier sounds baffled. He puts his horse to a trot so that they now ride side by side, and takes a good look at the young Musketeer. “You are too young to know me…”

“Well, I do,” the de Thierry says, turning to look at him for the first time, curious hazel young eyes meeting Athos’ gray ones.

“Then, I am fortunate,” Athos replies with a smile.

“They were waiting for you at that gate, Captain,” the young Musketeer says quietly. “de Comminges’ men. They were there to arrest you.”

“So much for the amnesty…” Athos muses, and the de Thierry nods acknowledging the irony.

“Entering the city from the Richelieu Gate is pretty daring, Captain,” the young Musketeer observes. “It is the most heavily guarded gate. It leads directly to the Louvre… You could have chosen St. Denis or any other smaller gate…”

“Ah,” Athos retorts with a smile. “My wife’s wise advice. She believes that the best place to hide is in common sight…” 

 

 

 


	68. Crow's Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucien's daughter Suzanne arrives in Paris...

‘…die and be born again~  
wherever you arrive  
they'll be there first,

glossy and rowdy  
and indistinguishable.  
The deep muscle of the world.”  
― Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems, Volume One

 

He looked up as the door to the library was flung open. Sophia stood in the open doorway breathless, her face flushed. Around her legs swirled three mastiff dogs reaching up their muzzles to their mistress for a pat or a scratch behind the ears. She must have been out walking.

‘She’s here,’ she announced excitedly. He had heard the carriage as it pulled into the drive leading to the house. He smiled and stood, ‘let’s not keep her waiting.’ He took her hand and they walked down the thickly carpeted hallway, the dogs running before them and on down the long staircase. Below they could hear the footsteps and eager chattering voices of the servants in the entryway, the stern voice of the house steward bringing order to their assembly. The gardeners, grooms and stable boys would be outside watching the carriage approach. Many of staff moved with the family between Royamount and the house in Paris and were well acquainted the young lady in the carriage. Even the unsmiling ancestors in the portraits lining the staircase had a hint of softness in their fixed eyes at the imminent arrival of Suzanne.

Joseph entered from the rear of the house and growled an order. The dogs fell silent and to heel at his feet. The house steward opened the door and the staff filed out to line up along the driveway. Lucien and Sophia stood at the top of the stairs.

The coachman pulled the matched four to a smooth stop in front of the tall doors and the grooms and stable boys took charge of the horses. An armed man sat next to the driver. Four mounted and armed men stopped to the far side of the coach and a footman jumped down to open the door. The occupant of the carriage was already rattling at the latch, trying to open it. The footman pulled down the step and unlatched the door extending his hand, ‘one moment Mlle, no tripping and hurting yourself.’ And then she was out the door and Sophia already at the bottom of the step to embrace her daughter.

‘Mother,’ cried Suzanne and threw her arms around Sophia.

‘My darling girl,’ exclaimed her mother, laughing and kissing both cheeks and embracing her.

Lucien remained on the top step watching the reunion of his wife and daughter. They were similar in height and dark hair. Her mouth was shaped like his and she had a broad smile. As she lost the softness of a child’s face there was a hint of the angular shape of her mother’s firm jaw and chin. Intelligence shone from her large expressive eyes, an unusual combination of both blue and green, fringed with thick dark lashes. She had been a pretty child and she on the verge of becoming a beautiful woman.

She looked up and smiled at him, but she stepped to first greet the assembled servants. It was chilly and they were in uniforms and without cloaks. She clasped the hand of each servant as they curtsied or bowed, called them by name and had a private word for each one.

‘Father,’ she called as she ran up the stairs, her eyes sparkling with happiness. Now he was Father he noted. Not Papa – the name she cried out when she woke in the night or when she shrieked with excitement as he carried her on his shoulders striding across streams or meadows or up hills, or as they leaned over the side of the skiff he rowed in a small cove - ‘look Papa’ she would exclaim at brightly colored fish swimming in the clear blue waters of the ocean. She was no longer a little girl and would not use a child’s name for a father. He took her by the shoulders.

‘How dare you grow up,’ he said with mock severity, and she walked straight into his embrace. ‘Papa,’ she murmured and over his daughter’s head, he exchanged a smile with Sophia.

He slipped his arm around her shoulders, ‘come inside,’ he said. ‘Your mother has plans that start immediately and do not stop until we return to Royamount. We had better start fortifying you with food.’

Yusuf appeared with a tray and they all headed for the drawing room. ‘Yusuf,’ she cried and waited for him to set down the heavy tray. He turned to her and took her hands in his, bowing and smiling. ‘Mlle Suzanne,’ his smile was warm with affection, ‘you have finally arrived.’

‘I’m so excited Yusuf,’ her eyes sparkled, ‘Father will allow me to come to the wharf!’

Yusuf raised his brows, ‘I thought you would be excited to go to the palace,’ he teased, ‘not sketch scruffy seamen.’

‘I want to draw people,’ she told him intently, ‘not flowers and fruit, but real people.’

‘Well there are plenty of those down by the river,’ observed Lucien drily. He was handing Sophia a glass of wine.

‘Tell us about Samy’s new family. Are they all frogs?’ He settled on the sofa and watched his daughter tell lively stories of brother’s new family of frogs he had installed in the pond in the rear gardens. ‘They have names and I had to draw a portrait of each frog and then one of them all together,’ she laughed, ‘by now he has them framed and hanging next to grandmother’s portrait in the gallery!’

‘I want to show you the plate of your dress. Madame Bertin will come tomorrow for the fitting,’ Sophia said, ‘the Duchess will dine with us this evening and tomorrow night we have a dinner party. We shall visit the palace too and perhaps be granted an audience with the Queen. She smiled at her daughter. ‘We have much to discuss.’ Arms around each other they left to see the progress of the unpacking and to prepare for dinner.

Lucien watched them leave and turned to Yusuf, ‘I am replaced by dresses and visits to the palace,’ he frowned severely at this change in status.

Yusuf raised an unsympathetic eyebrow. ‘Did you want her to stay a child forever?’ he asked rhetorically. Yes, Lucien said to himself still looking at the empty doorway – he wanted no one to replace him – not even a queen. Yusuf laid a hand on his shoulder.

‘You are irreplaceable in her heart,’ he said, ‘you will have to be content with that.’ He grunted in displeasure and turned to walk back through the gallery to his library, the distant voices of women accompanying him along the way.

He closed the library door and walked to the fireplace to place more wood on it. He went to his desk and dropped into the chair studying the stack of correspondence. He reached to pull out the letter he had placed at the bottom of the stack. He turned it over to study the seal, running his finger repeatedly over the hard red wax. He picked up his knife and slit it open unfolding the parchment and glanced at the signature. For a moment he stared unseeing at the script on the page – lost in a memory. He sighed deeply and sat back to read the letter.

The sun was beginning its descent as the doors opened softly, the shadows lengthening in the room. Lucien smiled to himself – it hadn’t taken so very long for her to come to him. She walked slowly along the shelves of books, reading the titles and running her fingers over the leather-bound spines. She stopped at the map table, peering at the maps and reading the notations in the margins.

He put down his quill and leaned back to watch her. She had a small smile as she studied the things that belonged to him. She walked to his desk and set a sheaf of parchments in front of him. ‘I made copies of the frog family, and I have a new one of Rascal.’

He spread out the drawings. ‘I suppose we should be grateful he didn’t name the frogs after his sisters.’

‘I think Rosie would rather like a frog named after her. I’m not so sure about Rayya,’ she laughed. ‘Rascal is refusing to sing with anyone. You must come home Father,’ she was smiling but her eyes held a serious look. ‘We miss you so much.’

He stood and took her hand leading her to the sofa. They sat together in comfortable silence, her head resting against his shoulder.

‘Tell me about your studies,’ he said and listened to the sound of her voice as she described her lessons and her progress with the harpsichord, how Uncle Henri had helped a neighbor with a calf stuck in mud, and sat up all night with a laboring mare, Aunt Claudette despaired of all their needlework, and cook had to find a new kitchen maid as the girl had eloped with a young man from the village. Small stories of the country, neighbors and the daily rhythms of the life they used to share. How much had changed since the discovery of an empty coffin in a small country cemetery and the night he waited on a dark river for an escaped prisoner.

>  
‘Richelieu was a genius,’ declared the Marquis du Pont Courlay. He pointed his finger for emphasis, ‘trade protectionism saved this country Auguste.’

The man to whom he was speaking inclined his head but did not entirely agree.

‘Trade saved this country!’ the Vicomte was equally adamant, ‘protectionism only works in the short term.’

The men were still sitting around the dining room table now cleared of silverware, crystal glasses and elegantly painted china - but littered with partially empty bottles of wine. They were lounging back in their chairs, legs stretched out in relaxed poses conducive to weighty discussions of politics, society or religion. Candles were burning low in silver candelabras and the shadows in the corners of the room were deepening.

‘Try this one,’ said Lucien pouring from a newly opened bottle of wine into the glasses of the men engaged in vigorous debate. He thought they were both right. Richelieu was a genius, but his real vision was in understanding the power of the sea to shape a nation’s future. And he was a practical man.

Lucien had learned everything he knew about merchant trade from the English – who did not think trade was a dirty word and on Dutch ships – crewed by French sailors as there were few other options. When letters of marque for privateers were handed out, he and his partners, saw a path to their dream in the merchant trade and success. They had been young, adventurous, and hungry for riches - a bastard son, a third son of a noble family, and a grandson of a pirate.

‘Interesting,’ said Francois de Vigerot swirling the wine in his glass. ‘What do you call it?’

‘German,’ said Lucien, ‘if you like it, I shall send some to you.’ He liked the Duchess’ younger brother. He was an affable man who had suffered an injury as a child resulting in some speech impediment and difficulty with memory. His doting sister always wanted an attendant with him, but Francois objected to this intrusion. Tonight, one of Lucien’s footmen hovered in the shadows of a corner, his attention fixed on his master’s guest.

‘Well Lucien,’ asked the Vicomte, ‘what will you do now that the navy will put privateers out of business. You will need a new occupation!’ The Marquis laughed and Lucien good-naturally nodded and feigned a rueful look. He decided against explaining the complicated marriage of convenience between governments and private ships and how, despite his best efforts - he would never be out of work.

‘I don’t know Auguste.’ Lucien spread his hands in a gesture of resignation and picked up another wine flask to refill their glasses, ‘I may have to take up the life of a bored lazy nobleman.’ The aristocrats laughed and Lucien joined them. Richelieu - he thought - had been a genius - and had made some very good pirates moves. He glanced at the wine flask he was holding. Spanish wine – worth a fortune to the man who knew how to get it past the customs house

‘We should join the ladies,’ announced M Renaudot standing with his wine glass. ‘I need a new story for my weekly.’ The men chuckled and scrapped their feet noisily as they stood and left the dining room.

He glanced around the drawing room. The ladies were seated together talking, and a card game was underway at a table at a far corner. The men wandered to where the ladies sat and entered their conversation. He listened with amused interest. He liked these men – perhaps because they were of the old families and loyal to the de la Croix name. As young men the Marquis had traveled with Sophia’s father and liked to tell and retell the stories of their adventures. Sophia’s children were beloved by he and his wife. Lucien suspected they hoped for a union between Suzanne and their grandson. They asked few questions about his business but always sent and accepted invitations and enjoyed his wine.

Suzanne was seated next to the grandson of the Marquis who was regaling her with some story of which he seemed to be the subject. When the young man took her glass to refill, she looked at her father and made a face. He smiled and shook his head at her.

‘Suzanne,’ called the Marquis, ‘your mother says you are quite accomplished on the harpsichord. Will you play for us?’ She looked startled, a faint blush rising into her cheeks. She did not like to be the object of attention, but she smiled politely and inclined her head in agreement.

‘I will help with the pages,’ declared the grandson springing forward to assist her and smiling winningly. He watched his daughter walk to the harpsichord and as she passed him, she widened her eyes in forbearance and he winked at her. The Duchess of Aiguillon walked to him and together they stood listening to the music and watching the young man carefully turn the pages for her. The Duchess chuckled.

‘Does he stand a chance?’ asked Lucien amused by the young man’s courtesy but also annoyed. Did he not see she was too young for his affections?

‘I do not think so,’ murmured the Duchess, ‘so there is no need to take him aside.’ He was startled and she laughed placing her hand on his arm. ‘He is not up to the task,’ she teased gently. He looked puzzled. She smiled, ‘the man who wins her heart will be man enough to win yours too.’

‘Did you know that my grandmother’s name was Suzanne,’ she said softly.

‘I did not,’ he said, noting the wistful and far away look in her eyes. She was lost in a memory – perhaps of her grandmother. ‘Were you close with her?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘After my mother died, my uncle took me and my brother to live with her. We became very close.’ Her uncle – Richelieu. After her husband’s untimely death, Richelieu had brought her to Paris. She managed her uncle’s household until his death. Neither she or her brother had children. It seemed wrong that a woman so capable of caring for others should have none of her own. She would say it was God’s will and that her life was in service of those who needed her – even if they were not family to her – they were family to God.

He felt a moment of contentment – an elegant room filled with laughter, animated discussions, people engaged in an evening of pleasing society. When he and Sophia married, this was the life he had taken as his own. Threats of arrest and stories of tortured children seemed far away and unconnected to him. He leaned against the window frame and felt the cold night beyond seeping through to his bones.

The harsh cry came from a distance. He canted his head to listen. It came again – closer this time. He turned slowly and looked out the window. Under a full moon the dew on the cold ground glittered brilliantly, illuminating the park in shades of gray and pearly white. It was quiet – the owl suddenly silenced as were the chittering sounds of insects.

He searched the trees closest to the house – and found it. A large black crow was sitting on the bare branch of the chestnut tree, staring at the window where he was standing. Attracted to shiny objects – they hovered over battlefields, pecking at metal buttons, rings, and the half-closed eyes of the dead. There were no crows at sea, but there were seagulls, screeching as they circled over a smoking ship, the deck slippery from the dark red pools forming under the dead that littered its surface. The sea would come alive with thrashing sharks, roiling in their frenzy to feed on the bodies dropped over the side, gulls shrieking and diving to steal their share.

The raven jerked its head as it looked side to side tilting its beak upward. Another harsh caw split the night. He turned around. The yellow gold flames of the fire crackling in the fireplace warmed the room, thick patterned carpets muted the pleasant sound of conversation, laughter and music that drifted together through the room. The colorful array of stylishly dressed women and men shimmered in the glow of candles burning in carved silver candelabras. Ornately framed portraits of elegantly dressed ancestors and richly colored tapestries hung from the walls.

On the opposite wall, a large gilt-edged mirror reflected his image back to him. Behind his left shoulder, the raven stood on the bare branch staring at him – and screamed its cawing sound again.

>  
He was leaning back against stacked pillows, one leg drawn up and the other splayed to the side. She was lying against him, her head resting against his chest. His hand stroked her bare back in an absent motion. He was humming.

‘I know that song,’ she tilted her face up to him. His lips brushed her forehead murmuring his assent. He had sung to his child when still in her mother’s womb. The child that had meant their freedom and a new beginning for them.

‘She will always be ours,’ she said. ‘She will always be yours.’ He looked down at her and stroked her hair back. ‘She will have another someday, and be married,’ he said. ‘She will belong to him before her father.’

‘Not for a long time yet,’ she chided gently. He nodded, ‘so why do I miss her already?’ She chuckled and tucked her hand behind him.

‘The dressmaker comes tomorrow?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Our meeting with the Minister is scheduled soon. The Duchess sent a message that the Queen may grant an audience.’ She gave a short ironic laugh, ‘or perhaps not if she remembers how vexed she is at you.’

‘I don’t want Suzanne in the court,’ he found nothing amusing, his voice was stern. ‘She is not to….’ Sophia interrupted him.

‘I do not want that either and I believe there is no danger of it,’ she said, ‘she is too young and if I am not persuasive, the Duchess will lend her support. She considers Suzanne’s talent and desire to study will be enough.’

He said nothing but he wasn’t convinced. If the Queen decided, then his daughter would join the court and would certainly be used to force his hand. He would give up whatever was required. He knew what he had to do, and he could not delay much longer.

His thoughts turned to the Duchess and the darkening cloud over Bicetre. He had a message from M la Reynie that preparations were almost complete, and they would be leaving soon. He had given instructions to Martin and was weighing whether Joseph should go with Martin or accompany him. The letter with the red seal weighed heavily in his considerations. There may be answers in Marseille – or Constantinople – or the dangerous ports of north Africa. He shifted his head against the pillow and stared out the window at the cold night wondering if the crow was still there.

She stroked his cheek and kissed his chest. ‘She will be safe,’ she whispered. ‘Soon, we will all be safe.’ He closed his eyes, softly humming the song he had sung to his unborn child …’

‘I want to see you.  
Know your voice.  
Recognize you when you  
first come 'round the corner….’

Outside, the crow shrieked its harsh note in accompaniment.


	69. As of Old times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When old friends reunite, it is as if not a day has passed...

**Author: Mordaunt**

_Charge it again, boys, charge it again!_  
_Pardonnez moi, je vous en prie._  
_As long as there is any ink in thy pen._  
_With never a penny of money._

_(We be Soldiers Three, first printed in Ravenscroft’s Deuteromelia 1609)_

 

D’ Artagnan sounds infuriated as he approaches his office. “This makes no sense! What English lord are you talking about, de Thierry?” The young Musketeer remains silent, and stops at the threshold making way for his Captain to enter the office without following him inside. “De Thierry is acting like some kind of oracle all of a sudden!” d’ Artagnan thinks pushing past his Musketeer irritate. “As if this day could not get more vexing with stolen weapons from the Arsenal showing up all over Paris, including the Queen’s bedchamber!”

A cloaked stranger stands with his back to the door looking out the window down to the courtyard, where Raoul and de Rohan are parrying with rapiers, while M. Marchal is carefully cleaning his pistols. “Sir,” the Captain says in a somber voice, walking towards him, “I was not aware that a visitor from England was expected…”

“What if he is not from England?” the man says, turning.

“Athos!” d’ Artagnan gasps, dumbfounded.

“Is that how you welcome an old friend?” Athos smiles and opens his arms for d’ Artagnan, who embraces him with the fervor, and warmth of his seventeen-year old self.

“Athos, my friend!” he exclaims pushing him back with admiration, “look at you! not a day older!”

“A bit grayer…” Athos laughs.

“We are all a bit grayer… I expect my hair will turn white every day with all that is happening…” He notices Athos’ demeanor dimming, and his gray eyes darkening. Athos knows about Raoul, he realizes, and that is why he risked everything to come to Paris. “I did not want to trouble you Athos.” He speaks apologetically. “I thought we might clear this sordid story before I get word out to you. Besides Raoul is safe here…”

“He is accused of murder…” Athos retorts quietly.

“No one has accused him of anything. There is no proof.” D’ Artagnan assures him. “I understand from M. de Guiche that the King thinks it is all pure slander against his favorite. I also understand that Raoul has now gained quite the reputation at court…” 

“Reputation!” Athos exclaims with repugnance. Still he knows what d’ Artagnan means by that. He remembers a lifetime ago, when he too was a man of a certain reputation alongside his cousin, Charles César de Rochefort (1). “What kind of reputation would that be, d’ Artagnan?” He is angry. “Killing an innocent woman?”

“Do not misunderstand me Athos,” d’ Artagnan replies quietly, offering to pour wine for his friend, who silently declines. “It is a heinous crime. But she was an actress. It is not uncommon among those people unfortunately…”

“And Raoul was involved with her?” Athos sits crossing his arms before his chest.

“Yes, very much so. I was not in favor of his liaison, and told him as much. Porthos was more vocal about his disapproval. But Raoul is a grown man. It was not for us to tell him what to do. Besides, you and I were both his age once. We both lost our heads over intriguing and fascinating women. We are both married to them. From what I understand, this girl was an alluring creature…”

“What of his friends?”

“I believe M. de Guiche encouraged the liaison as did his Majesty. This kind of notoriety is well received at court, as you well know. His friends here were less in favor of it, especially M. de Rohan who thought it a bad idea …”

“De Rohan?”

“Ah, yes,” d’ Artagnan says. He fills a glass of wine for himself, and moves his chair next to Athos’. “De Rohan…. Best swordsman in France. I am sure you’ve heard! He holds your title!”

Athos nods with a faint smile. “I have heard,” he says, “and always wondered about that name…” It is indeed an unusual name for a Musketeer, especially if the man who holds it is a member of that distinguished family. Of course, there are many family branches some not as illustrious, others distant. Athos’ mother was a de Rohan from her mother, and so was his cousin, Charles César (1.)

D’ Artagnan sips from the glass as he stretches comfortably on his chair. “He is Rochefort’s son,” he says quietly. “He is also my best Musketeer. I hope he succeeds me one day. I think I know what Captain de Treville felt when you were his second in command, Athos. That would be de Rohan for me.”

Athos turns towards the window again. “I have been observing him training with Raoul,” he says quietly. “He is superb.”

“Raoul loves him, of that I have no doubt. They call each other cousin…”

Athos recalls a time long ago, when he too loved this young man’s father. When they had called each other cousin. He recalls how much it all changed in the end (1.) “So, you recruited him…” he muses, his eyes still following the fighting young men in the courtyard below.

“Yes, and I am proud to have done so. I killed his father (2.) When this young man crossed my path, I thought I should do something for him, and never regretted that decision. He was born and raised in a prison, can you imagine this? He and his poor mother were the two most innocent victims of that traitor!”

“What about the other two?”

“M. Marchal,” d’ Artagnan says, signaling towards the dark-haired young man, who sits on a bench observing the swordfight while cleaning his pistols, “is a child from the Court of Miracles. He reminded me of Porthos the moment I laid eyes on him. He is strong, determined, and, I have discovered, very apt at solving crimes…”

“I gather then, he is involved in solving this murder?”

“They all are. M. de Thierry too. The one who escorted you from the Richelieu Gate… Milord de Winter! (1)” d’ Artagnan chuckles.

“This is de Thierry then! Raoul wrote to me about him: that he is difficult to warm up to, harsh, and ready to take offense. Having met him, I can see why Raoul might find him difficult. He is brilliant however,” Athos smiles, “and very young.”

“Very young and very deadly. Best sharpshooter in France, although our friend Aramis will not concede on that score.” D’ Artagnan laughs.

“He wouldn’t!” Athos smiles knowingly. “Which one of them intervened against Grimaud, then? De Rohan? I understand Grimaud was injured.”

“De Thierry…” d’ Artagnan says quietly.

Athos gasps. “The boy? That boy injured Grimaud?”

“He is as much of a boy as I was when you first met me,” d’ Artagnan retorts. “If I recall I gave quite a few people a rough time with the sword back then…”

“Very true,” Athos admits. “Who can forget the damage you caused to Labarge and the old Cardinal (3)…I for one, never underestimated you, young man! What of Raoul? Is he unscathed, you think?”

“He was shaken when de Thierry brought him to the Garrison that night, as you might expect,” d’ Artagnan leans forward, towards his friend. “He had some injuries. Nothing serious. He fought well, for a man who had been drugged…”

“Drugged?” Athos is aghast. “D’ Artagnan, you must tell me all…”

“Not much to tell. De Rohan and the other two happened upon the body of the young woman at the wharf beyond the Port de la Tournelle. Her name is Cecille du Pouget. She was an actress at the Marais. I am told she was quite popular. The story my Musketeers heard from people at the theater was that Raoul was with her the night she died, although no one actually saw him. They went to his apartments and found him, by all accounts, drugged. De Thierry remained with Raoul to make sure he got better. When the two of them left that night to return here they were attacked by Lucien Grimaud. The rest you seem to know.” d’ Artagnan replies pensively. “But if I may ask now Athos, how did you find out?”

It is for Athos to be pensive now. He pauses a little before he replies, as if he considers the implications of what he is about to say. “Grimaud wrote a letter…” he begins.

“What?” d’ Artagnan springs from his chair. “He wrote to you? What for, to gloat? De Thierry and Raoul said that he declared the attack was his revenge…”

Athos’ eyes glimmer with anger, “I have no doubt that it was revenge,” he says. “He did not write to me. He wrote to Anne… 

D’ Artagnan looks perplexed. “To Anne? He knows Anne?”

“How is Anne?” A voice interrupts them from the other side of the room. “I heard we had a visitor called Lord de Winter, and I know only one de Winter…,” she says with a warm smile entering from a side door that connects d’ Artagnan’s office to his residence. Athos stands up to greet her. He kisses both her hands with much feeling. “Constance!”

“I am so happy to see you Athos,” she says, “even under these sad circumstances. You risk everything coming here. But what of Anne? We heard from Porthos she was gravely ill.”

D’ Artagnan pulls another chair for his wife, and Athos holds her hand courteously as she sits.

“She was indeed, very ill.” He lowers his gaze as if uncertain how to say what he wants to say without sounding as ardent as he feels. “We have a daughter,” he finally says, and Constance notices that he blushes. She had no idea that was possible. “A daughter!” she exclaims and d’ Artagnan chimes in: “My friend! You should have said something! Congratulations!”

“And Anne…?” Constance insists. She seizes his hands with much worry. What if he has lost Anne the way he lost Sylvie?

“She is better now,” he retorts kissing her hands again. “It was very difficult. But she is much better, and we have a beautiful daughter. Bianca… Blanche…” he sounds a bit shy.

“It is a lovely name!” Constance encourages him. Athos, father of a daughter, she thinks with amazement, and a very proud one too. Who’d have imagined…!

“Well, we have a son who would be perfect for her!” D’ Artagnan declares, making Constance turn towards him, embarrassed: “Shame on you, Charles! They are babies!”

“Ah! Start them early, as Porthos advises!” d’ Artagnan exclaims, the very moment his office door bursts open as if pushed by a whirlwind. 

“I’ll be damned!” Porthos’ sonorous voice echoes all the way to the stables below. “Can you believe the audacity!!!” Behind him, M. de Thierry signals to his Captain: “I could not keep him out!” as Porthos kicks the door, closing it to de Thierry’s face.

“That small Musketeer is too sneaky, d’ Artagnan!” Porthos declares huffing with exasperation. “Is he the one who grazed Grimaud?”

“The very one!” d’ Artagnan retorts proudly, standing up, while Athos remains seated next to Constance.

“Good! What was all this about you being busy with some English lord!” Porthos continues walking towards d’ Artagnan.

“Pure nonsense…” Athos replies standing up also. “I am not an English lord!”

“Athos!” Porthos cries, and they all hush him: “Lower your voice Porthos!”

“Athos!” Porthos repeats in a futile effort to whisper. He grabs Athos by the shoulders and embraces him. “What the hell are you doing here! Have you lost your mind?” 

“What would you do in my place, Porthos?” Athos retorts.

“The same,” Porthos says throwing himself onto a chair that creaks under his weight. “I would do the same. He is a fine young man, Athos! Did d’ Artagnan tell you how he singlehandedly saved the Queen and the King? Brilliant! But he is too damn adventurous!” 

“Porthos, he is sixteen…” Constance interjects handing him a glass of wine, which he swallows with a gulp.

“True” he agrees, stretching his legs with satisfaction. “That little actress was a lovely creature! A vixen too from what I hear. Such a terrible death… But our boy had nothing to do with that! It is all a misunderstanding…”

“Or not,” Athos muses. “For it seems to me, d’ Artagnan, that it could have also been a plot… Why drug Raoul?” 

“We thought at first that it was part of Grimaud’s plan,” d’ Artagnan says, swerving the last drop of wine left in the bottom of his glass. “We had thought Grimaud was the girl’s lover you see…”

“Grimaud? That girl’s lover? Rubbish!” Porthos interjects.

“Yes, Porthos…” d’ Artagnan confirms quietly, looking at Constance, who lowers her eyes. “We now know this is not the case…”

“He thought she was his daughter,” Athos chimes in.

“You know that?” Constance interjects with astonishment.

“It was in his letter,” Athos explains. “In his letter to Anne…”

“Why would he write to your wife?” Porthos sounds puzzled.

“Because they know each other,” Athos replies quietly. “They have known each other for a very long time. I don’t know how or why, but they do.”

“ _Morbleu_!” Porthos exclaims sitting up in his chair as if he suddenly has a revelation. “That man she told us she knew! The man with the barge, the one who helped with de Beaufort’s escape…”

Athos nods, and d’ Artagnan interrupts them both: “I should not be listening to this conversation about de Beaufort’s escape, don’t you think?”

“Pff,” Porthos scoffs. “You are involved, no matter how much you want to pretend you are not, and right at this moment you are harboring an enemy of France, and I am having a nice chat with him too. If they decide to arrest us, they can. They will…” Constance moves with much uneasiness but Porthos pats her hand affectionately. “Ah, don’t worry, love! To arrest any of us they have to go through my men, your husband’s men, and then… the three of us. Who will do that? De Comminges?”

“He might…” d’ Artagnan replies quietly. 

“He is a slimy coward. Remember him Athos, when his wretched lot burned down our old Garrison? (4) De Comminges was not killed because he managed to escape with his sword hanging between his legs. No one will arrest anyone, Constance!” he assures her, and she smiles an unconvinced smile. If they decide to arrest anyone in this room, it will probably be me, Constance reckons, for harboring rioters, and conspiring with the likes of Lucien Grimaud to feed the poor.

“So, whose audacity were you protesting against when you entered, Porthos?” d’ Artagnan asks, trying to appease his wife by changing the subject to something other than getting arrested for treason.

“Grimaud’s!” Porthos exclaims. “He leaves stolen weapons now everywhere! In my barracks, in the Louvre, even in the Queen’s bedchamber!!! He is mocking us…”

 “Some of the stolen weapons showed up in our kitchens…” d’ Artagnan adds.

“That is audacity…” Athos remarks. 

“I sent him a message,” d’ Artagnan explains. “I sent de Thierry and Marchal to interrogate him the morning after his attack against Raoul. I did not expect him to tell them anything, and he said very little, although de Thierry is convinced Grimaud knows more about a black carriage that is associated with the murder than he admits. But my message was clear. The Queen wants his head on a spike. If she cannot have him for treason, she will have him for murder…” 

“You are planning to accuse him of murdering his own daughter?” Athos sounds horrified. “I am the last person to advocate for the man but…”

“I am not going to accuse him of anything. I am going to find evidence that links him to that murder, and hand it over to Her Majesty. Besides the four of us in this room, and probably his wife, no one else knows this girl was his daughter…”

“She wasn’t!” Constance interjects, greatly exasperated. “I met the girl. She was a coquettish little fool, who would become anyone you would wish her to be. She liked to be admired. But she was not his daughter! It is absurd. He did not kill her either!” She is infuriated.

“Wait, are you too his old friend?” Porthos sounds dismayed. “Is everyone’s wife enchanted by this man? I should have warned him to keep his hands off our wives!”

“Warned him! When?” d’ Artagnan exclaims aghast.

“Now! I come from his lair in that tavern at the wharf! I told him exactly what I think about his shenanigans. I told him I want my weapons back, and that he’d better stop all this taunting!”

Athos smiles despite himself while a desponded d’ Artagnan rakes his fingers though his hair. “You should not have done this Porthos…” he bemoans. 

“Why not?” Porthos shrugs. “All the clever schemes have led to nothing. The man is mocking us to our face. Why not just show him who we are?” 

“I think Porthos has a point.” Athos observes.

 “You don’t have any rash plans, do you Athos?” D’ Artagnan sounds tired and vexed. “You did not risk your life to get to your son in Paris, only to fight a duel with Grimaud?”

“I came to see if Raoul needs help. To try to get him out of Paris if necessary,” Athos replies quietly. “I promised Anne, not to hurt Grimaud.” He has not forgotten his promise to Alessandra, but he also knows how much he craves to thrust his sword into that fiend, who attacked his son, and has such strange hold over his wife.

“Anne cares about him then?” Constance never thought she would agree with Milady on anything but she agrees on this. 

Athos pauses before he answers. He knows Alessandra does not like to be talked about. “She does, and I respect her wishes,” is all he says.

“I am not sure I agree with all this! All this fondness for a pirate! The man is a thief! A good thief, I will give him that, but still a thief!” Porthos interjects. “On the other hand, I trust Constance, and I respect your wife, Athos. I did not think highly of Milady before, but I do now. She is a woman of great intelligence and intuition. Marie Cessette is completely enthralled by her!”

“Marie Cessette is at Bragelonne?” Constance inquires.

“Yes,” Athos replies. “We are fortunate to have her with us…”

“She wrote that Bianca is a most beautiful baby…” Porthos intones. “I had no doubt, Athos my friend! Her mother is a rare beauty.” He pauses, as if a new idea suddenly occurs to him. “Olivier will be a handsome young man!” he exclaims. “A perfect match!”

Constance gasps, and d’ Artagnan and Athos burst in a roar of laughter. “My friend Porthos,” Athos says with tears in his eyes, “unfortunately your proposal comes too late. I fear Bianca is already spoken for!” Constance feels the urge to stand up, and chide all of them but she is interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Enter!” d’ Artagnan orders. M. de Thierry walks into the office removing his hat. He bows with respect.

“Captain,” he says. “You have a message.”

“Leave it on the desk, de Thierry!” d’ Artagnan orders, “and tell the Vicomte that an old friend of his, waits him in my office.”

The young Musketeer bows again. “I will do so Captain.” He keeps his eyes fixed upon Athos, who notices immediately. It is a silent invitation. Athos knows because once, when he was young, he felt the same when he first met M. de Treville, his godfather (1.) He stands up removing his cloak. “D’ Artagnan,” he suggests. “Perhaps some of your men would like to train with the sword?” He can see a flash of excitement in the young Musketeer’s eyes.

“What a brilliant idea!” Porthos exclaims. “It feels like a lifetime ago! How about we flex our muscles against some young and eager Musketeer blood?” He stands up also, removing his cloak and doublet. “If only Aramis were here…” he adds ruefully.

“Ah…perhaps he is,” d’ Artagnan replies, reading the message de Thierry brought. He hands it to Athos: “What do you think?”

 A glimmer of surprise passes through Athos’ gray eyes as he reads:

 

 

> _“Lord de Winter is a special envoy from His Majesty King Charles I of England. He shall remain in Paris for as long as his duties demand. This passport should see him safely during his time in Paris, and should permit him to leave the city without any delays._
> 
> _Duc d’ Herblay, Minister of France”_
> 
>  

“Damn him!” Porthos remarks with a chuckle, reading the message over Athos’ shoulder. “How on earth does he do this? He always amazes me…” 

“So how about it, Messieurs?” d’ Artagnan exclaims removing his doublet as well. “How about we find out what these youngsters are made of?” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The background story about Athos’ youth, including his relationship with Rochefort, his first encounter with M. de Treville, his connection to Lord de Winter, and how he became a Musketeer, is told in “Past Forgotten, Past Remembered” posted on AO3 (author Mordaunt)
> 
> (2) BBC Musketeers, season 2.
> 
> (3) BBC Musketeers, season 1. 
> 
> (4) BBC Musketeers, season 3. De Comminges was not a character of the BBC series. He is a character in Dumas’ “Twenty Years After” but he has nothing to do with the Red Guard in the original novel. De Comminges’ background as an old Red Guard under Marchaeux is specific to this story here and helps connect this new character to the BBC series season 3.


	70. The Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two generations of Musketeers meet at a fencing match...

**Author: Mordaunt**

_Nos esprits libres et contents  
__Vivent en ces doux passe-temps.  
__Et par de si chastes plaisirs,  
__Bannissent tous autres desirs_.  
_(A. Boësset composer, lyrics Anonymous,  
__Published in 1609 "Nos esprits libres et contents")(1)_

 

 

“Captain, M. de Thierry told me that an old friend expects to see me…” Raoul stands at the door of d’ Artagnan’s office, perplexed.

“Ah, yes, Vicomte!” d’ Artagnan replies in a manner nonchalant. He is not wearing his doublet, and carries his sword in his hand, a sign that he is on his way to a fencing match. He is followed by General du Vallon, who looks equally ready to parry with his blade. That would be something to witness, Raoul thinks: a match between these two. 

In the Captain’s empty office, a man stands behind the desk, hidden in the shadows cast by the drawn curtains. “You asked to see me, Monsieur,” Raoul begins tentatively, but he immediately recognizes the man from his bearing.  “Father!” he exclaims. Raoul’s momentary joy is lost to a feeling of embarrassment and dismay. He knows why his father stands here, risking his life. It is what Raoul fears most: that his father and mother will find out. That they will be dismayed and disappointed. He pauses therefore, and lowers his gaze, ill at ease. “I am ashamed, Monsieur…” he declares. “I must be a complete disappointment to you…”

“Come here!” Athos speaks gently. He places his hands upon Raoul’s shoulders, and draws him closer. “Look at me, Raoul!” he demands, and the young man complies with apprehension. “You will never be a disappointment to me. I am proud to be your father.”

“Even after what happened….?” Raoul hesitates. “What I did…?”

“What did you do, Raoul?” his father intones, “fall in love?”

“That’s it, Monsieur,” Raoul retorts with sincerity. “You see, I did not fall in love. At least, I do not think so. Everything was exciting, and new, and different. But I did not fall in love…” 

“I see,” Athos says, his voice solemn and quiet. He sits in d’ Artagnan’s chair, and invites Raoul to sit next to him.

“Captain d’ Artagnan thought it a bad idea,” the young man continues. “General du Vallon told me so too on several occasions. M. de Rohan advised me against it. But then at court…”   

“Court is not where men forge reputations, Raoul.” His father’s tone is austere, and Raoul feels his heart sinking to the depths of despair. Still, he knows he deserves this kind of severity.

“M. de Rohan said the same thing,” Raoul replies, contrite. “I ignored his advice. It was a terrible mistake. I know this now…”

“I was once like you,” Athos confides, leaning towards his son, and pressing his hand. “I made similar mistakes…” It occurs to Athos that it was M. de Rohan’s father who had introduced him to a life of reckless extravagance and self-indulgence, although, very much like Raoul, he had let himself be seduced. (2)

“Then you understand, Monsieur.” Raoul replies. “You know how shameful it feels. I have dishonored you…”  

“It is your honor first and foremost that you damaged Raoul,” Athos remarks quietly. “Now it is up to you to change everything. Do know who taught me this? Captain de Treville! When I walked through the door of his Garrison I was a lost man. He taught me discipline with great patience. I was a terrible student.”(2)

“I think, Monsieur,” Raoul ventures, “…I think that this Garrison is the best place for me. But then, His Majesty will not have it so…” 

“I have heard. I understand the King calls you brother,” Athos observes. He does not sound pleased. But then again, Louis is Aramis’ son. If the boy was not the King of France wouldn’t the two young men be brothers in arms like their fathers?

“I know Kings are fickle as allies and even less loyal as friends, Monsieur,” Raoul replies sensing his father’s disapproval. “I have read Signor Machiavelli, and know about M. Saint Evremont’s views. (3) But Louis is honorable and sincere in his friendship, as is M. de Guiche…”

It occurs to Athos suddenly, that unlike him at his age, Raoul finds life at court agreeable. (2) “The court is a treacherous place, Raoul” he says. “Now you know it. If you choose to remain there, you must learn to protect yourself and your honor...”

“In that I have failed,” Raoul whispers letting his head fall with embarrassment.

“Yes,” Athos affirms his tone gentle, despite the severity of his words. “You have failed. But it is an opportunity to learn from your mistakes.”

Raoul hopes so, but in his heart all kinds of doubts linger. What if he fails again? He raises his eyes. It is the question he dreads but must ask. “Does my mother know, Monsieur?”

Athos has fretted about this question: how to speak to Raoul about his mother, about all that has happened since Raoul left them at Blois to join Porthos’ regiment. Alessandra thought it best that Raoul should know as little as possible. After all, she argued, there is no longer any danger, and there is no need for Raoul to be burdened with responsibilities that were not his in the first place. It was enough that his quick thinking and courage with the King kept them safe at Bragelonne all these months. Athos decides to follow her advice. “Your mother knows everything,” he replies. “She is as worried as I am. She insisted I come to Paris, and she was right to do so…” He pauses, considering how to say what he must say next. “You have a sister, Raoul,” he ventures. “She was born five days ago…”

“Mother…?” Raoul gasps. She never wrote about it, he wants to complain, but then he remembers that he avoided writing to his mother all this time for fear she might intuit both his liaison with Cecille, and the reason of M. de Thierry’s animosity. “Is mother well?” he asks instead.

Athos smiles. “Yes. So is your sister…”

“A sister!” Raoul intones. Until de Thierry declared himself Athos’ illegitimate son, Raoul had never thought of himself an older brother to anyone. He liked the feeling, even if it was with de Thierry. But now… “To be an older brother to a sister!” he exclaims. “I fear I may not make a very good example…”

“She is only five days old, Raoul!” Athos teases him, an impish glint in his gray eyes. “You have plenty of time….”

“What does she look like, Monsieur? What is her name?”

“Well, your mother thinks I am a foolish man, but I think her a rare beauty!” Athos asserts with great pride, and Raoul feels elated to see his father beam with so much happiness. “Her name is Blanche Yolande. We call her Bianca…”

“My grandmother’s name…” Raoul observes.

“Yes, and like your grandmother she too will be an artist. Of this I am convinced. She has the hands of a musician!”

Raoul tries to suppress a giggle but fails miserably. “I thought she was only five days old, Monsieur!” he points out. Athos raises a piqued eyebrow: “To quote General du Vallon, it is important to start children early!” He imitates Porthos’ sonorous voice, and they both laugh. It lifts the tension in room, and makes Raoul feel hopeful again, as if the last few weeks happened to someone else; as if he is back on that promontory over their cove in Venice when he first met his father. “Perhaps I could return with you to Blois, Monsieur, to see my mother and sister,” he exclaims, knowing too well that such a thing is impossible. Traveling to Paris is dangerous enough for his father without being accompanied by a man marked as a murderer.

“Perhaps you will,” Athos replies wistfully. He too knows it is unlikely. Athos inhales, and stands up, the playfulness in his eyes returning. “In the meantime,” he says, “I have promised to test some Musketeer friends of yours, and determine their skills with the sword. Porthos and d’ Artagnan decided to join me. What do you think?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Monsieur!” Raoul exclaims with excitement.

 

********

“The Court of Miracles, eh?” Porthos places his large hand on M. Marchal’s shoulder. “Whereabouts?”

“Rue Thevenot, but everywhere really,” M. Marchal replies lowering his eyes.

“Nothing to be embarrassed about, young man! I was raised there until I was about your age!”

M. Marchal never touts his origins, although he has never felt ashamed of them. To hear this great General proclaim himself a child of the Court of Miracles however, fills him with pride. Suddenly, everything is possible.

“Is that where you picked up your skills with the sword, M. Marchal?” Porthos probes.

“I picked those skills from all over the place, General” M. Marchal chuckles. “Streets, wharfs, taverns…”

“Flea’s?”

“Oh, always Flea’s!” M. Marchal replies, and Porthos laughs.

“She is a force to be reckoned, that woman! If you learned sword fighting in the tavern that is now hers, know that you and I are students of the same school!”

 “I am honored, Your Grace!” M. Marchal says gleefully. “You will find that many of those old skills remain, to the chagrin of M. de Thierry who tries to train me in the ways of the Musketeers, and M. de Rohan, my lieutenant… 

“Well, let’s see!” Porthos is about to draw his sword, when he notices Raoul and Athos emerging from d’ Artagnan’s office. “You wouldn’t mind a little company M. Marchal, would you?” he says winking at the young Musketeer, who bows respectfully. “Not in the least, General!”

“Ah, Raoul!” Porthos exclaims, “let’s see if you and M. Marchal can overpower an old Musketeer from the Court of Miracles!”

 

*******

M. de Rohan lowers his rapier ending the match. “It is an honor crossing my sword with you Captain!” he says.

“The honor is mine, M. de Rohan,” Athos retorts with a smile. “Your title of Best Swordsman is well deserved!”

“Still, Captain,” M. de Rohan says lowering his clear blue eyes, “not good enough to win…”

“Ah, young man!” Athos laughs, “it is all about experience. When you get to be my age, you will see how it compensates for all the lost youthful zeal! Hola! Raoul!” he exclaims as his son almost falls into him trying to parry one of Porthos’ attacks.

“Look at him!” Athos chuckles at the sight of Porthos fighting against Raoul and M. Marchal.  M. de Rohan hands Athos some water, and sits next to him on the large wooden table at the courtyard. “You’d think becoming a General in the French army, and a father of four would make him act his age,” Athos remarks. “But no! Not Porthos!”

“I admit, Captain,” the young man retorts laughing, “The General scares me sometimes.” 

“Good!” Porthos exclaims, having overheard the conversation while lunging against his two young opponents. “I mean to keep scaring you, de Rohan! That’s a good move Marshal!” he urges on, as the young Musketeer jumps backwards allowing Raoul to swerve, and parry Porthos’ attack.

“Don’t give the man ideas, de Rohan!” d’ Artagnan yells from the other side of the courtyard, where he fights against de Thierry.

M. de Rohan turns to Athos again, his tone confidential, “Captain, I must repeat that it is a great honor to meet you… I have looked forward to such a meeting for years…” Athos understands the young man’s subtlety; all that he would like to say but his refinement and sense of worth and honor, do not permit him to utter. “I have been curious about you, Monsieur,” Athos replies, “ever since I heard your name. Your Captain thinks very highly of you, and my son loves you like a brother. Now that I have met you I can see why. You need no recommendations. Your actions and character recommend you!” he adds, extending his hand, which the young man shakes with great warmth and pride.

In the distance, de Thierry feigns an attack distracting d’ Artagnan, who lunges forward missing a point. “Excellent move!” Athos observes. “That young man over there is worth paying attention to, M. de Rohan. He may be a contender for our title one day…”

“De Thierry is competent with the sword, Captain,” de Rohan affirms. “Quick and slippery. He is just not disciplined enough to stick to his ground against a more experienced opponent. But if he keeps his cool he can be deadly.”

“Perhaps I could challenge him. He reminds me of your Captain when he was that age,” Athos proposes, a mischievous glimmer in his eye. M. de Rohan would like to discourage such an encounter. He is well aware how much de Thierry desires it. He is also certain that his friend’s desire to cross swords with the Comte de la Fére has nothing to do with his admiration of the man: that this is something else, something personal. But M. de Rohan has no way to explain his apprehension. Then, he reckons, that perhaps to finally cross swords with the Comte might free de Thierry of whatever obsession has been pestering him all this time.

“D’ Artagnan, do you think your Musketeer would like to parry against a retired Captain?” Athos proposes walking up to the pair, and swerving his rapier in his left hand with great dexterity.  D’ Artagnan and de Thierry pause in the middle of their match. From where he sits, de Rohan can see the glow of excitement in his friend’s eyes. 

“I believe you are being challenged, de Thierry!” d’ Artagan exclaims.

Somewhere at the other side of the courtyard, Raoul retreats from his fight with Porthos bowing respectfully, and hurries to de Rohan’s side. “We must stop this, Jean!” he whispers. “I don’t see how…” M. de Rohan replies, “and frankly maybe it’s for the best. It will be good for de Thierry’s arrogance to get a fair beating from the man he desperately wants to impress.” That is not what de Thierry wants, Raoul thinks. He wants to provoke, not to impress. But Raoul has no way of telling M. de Rohan. He has no way of telling anyone.

Athos and de Thierry cross swords, while the rest gather around to watch. “Ah! The small sneaky one!” Porthos chortles, patting d’ Artagnan’s back. “Let’s see if he is as lucky with Athos as he was with Grimaud!” He winks at his old friend. “50 livres?” D’ Artagnan gazes at him in utter disbelief.  “You want me to bet against one of my Musketeers, or against one of my friends?”  “Naah!” Porthos laughs, “Athos will not take it personally. I know that I wouldn’t! The boy is not bad at all,” he adds as the fight unfolds.

Not bad at all, Athos thinks also, albeit too young, and easily provoked. Athos plans his assault carefully, eager to gauge the range of the boy’s skills, and his weaknesses. “Use your legs, young man!” he advises, “not your back!” Athos feints a series of attacks from the left drawing de Thierry in, and then he swerves and lunges against the boy from the opposite side. No matter how surprised by the move, de Thierry does not lose his nerve, but ripostes with great audacity. The move gets de Thierry a flick on his side, and he loses a point, but he earns himself the advantage of a new assault.

“I call that too much confidence!” Porthos remarks.  “I remember a young man with too much confidence just like this one many years ago!” he laughs, embracing d’ Artagnan, who watches carefully, no longer entertained. He has trained de Thierry more times that he can remember, and he knows one thing for certain: his Musketeer is not fighting for sport.

Athos knows it too. Perhaps the boy wants to prove himself, he thinks, and make a good impression. He is far more disciplined than Athos expected but he becomes too confident, and makes mistakes. He is slippery, as de Rohan called him. But there is something else, Athos realizes. Something he has never encountered before with an opponent: he is too small, very light on his feet, and yet at the same time surprisingly strong. The boy presses on rather recklessly, and Athos misdirects him in his offensive to think he is about to lunge forward. The last moment Athos pushes back, and glides his sword under the boy’s hilt. The move sends de Thierry’s sword up in the air, and the young man loses his footing, and slips onto the ground, coming face to face with the point of Athos’ blade.

Athos withdraws his rapier. Anger flashes through the boy’s eyes, but there is also something else: disappointment? Athos has trained many young men, some younger than this one: fought hard with them, shoved them onto the ground, broken their swords and a couple of their bones, and shaken their youthful arrogance. He would laugh at it all, extend a friendly hand, pat them on the back, and expect them to return for more. But this boy Athos feels he must protect. Behind the determined look in his eyes, there is something vulnerable and fragile that Athos cannot ignore. It could also be his eagerness. Or perhaps it is the boy’s earlier intervention at the Richelieu Gate that ensured he was not arrested. “Are you hurt?” he asks gently, surprised by his own tone of voice. He extends his hand.

“I am fine, thank you, Captain,” de Thierry says refusing the hand offered. He pushes himself to his feet, and dusts his clothes, seemingly unaffected.

“That was very good,” Athos declares in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear. He realizes the young man got a beating in front of his friends, his Captain, and General du Vallon.

“That was very good indeed!” Porthos intones in his sonorous voice. Athos is not sure if his friend realizes the boy’s embarrassment or if he means it, but he is grateful for the confirmation. “My friend d’ Artagnan,” Porthos continues, “I want this small one for my regiment when he grows up!” He laughs lifting the tension. “Keep your hands off my men, old friend!” d’ Artagnan chuckles, and invites his men and friends to share wine around the table.

De Thierry stands at a distance from the rest. “You did very well, M. de Thierry,” Athos says quietly approaching him. “No, I did not, Captain,” the young man replies, lowering his eyes. “I was too arrogant. I am too arrogant…”

“Yes, you are,” Athos agrees with a smile. “But do you see that man over there, your Captain? When I first met him, he walked through the Garrison gate and challenged me, Porthos, and Aramis to a duel right there and then. Long ago too, before I became a Musketeer, I challenged Porthos to a duel betting I could win in three moves. (2) So, you see, we were all too arrogant once!”

“Did you win?” the boy interjects, his hazel eyes now filled with curiosity. “Did you win in three moves?”

Athos sighs: “If I tell you, do you promise never to reveal it to anyone?”

“I promise Captain!” de Thierry asserts, his voice full of eager sincerity.

“I won…” Athos whispers in a conspiratorial tone. “You may never repeat this or the General will kill us both!”

The boy looks awestruck. “You have my word, Captain,” he says with a smile, “no one will ever know!”

“How about we try with the swords again,” Athos suggests. “Only this time without an audience. How about tomorrow early in the morning?”

“I would like that very much, Captain!” the young Musketeer replies eagerly.

Athos places his arm around the boy’s shoulder. “Excellent, young man! Forget about trying to prove yourself. Let’s agree tomorrow morning will be just training…”

 

******

“So, did you tell him, de Thierry? Did you tell my father?” Raoul presses his companion while shoveling dirt. It is late afternoon, and they are both in the stables, de Thierry removing the saddle from his horse, and Raoul charged with that heinous de Treville tradition, the one he used to make fun of, when he was still serving in Porthos’ regiment.  

De Thierry stops unfastening the belt of his saddle, and pauses before he answers. “No. I did not. I do not intend to.”

Raoul plants the shovel into the hay, and leans against the handle. “Why not? He is a good man de Thierry…”

“I know,” the young Musketeer says. He walks away from his horse at the stall, and sits at a bench next to Raoul.

“Why not, I don’t understand. Is that not what you wanted? For my father to find out?”

“How can I do that, Bragelonne? What am I supposed to say: Captain, thank you for your generosity and all this training, and by the way, I am your bastard?” He sounds resigned. “I was a complete fool. I am not even sure what I expected, that he would welcome me with open arms?” 

“I am sure he will!” Raoul insists. “I know he will!” 

“S _ang Dieu_ Bragelonne!” de Thierry exclaims. "Sometimes you sound so naïve…!” He springs to his feet with exasperation, and returns to the stall. Waiting with a lopsided saddle, his horse snorts, irritated.

“I am not naïve!” Raoul mumbles under his breath resuming his dreaded task. “I trust my father…”

 “I trust your father too, Raoul,” de Thierry retorts. He unfastens the saddle, and throws it over the wooden partition. “This is the problem: I wish I did not like your father at all. I wish I did not admire him. Then, I might have been able to tell him, just to spite him.” He picks up his hat and sword, and motions to leave but pauses for a moment. “There is no point, Bragelonne. It is too late.” He pushes past de Rohan, who is about to enter the stables and assume a task similar to that of Raoul. 

The two work without speaking for a while. It is de Rohan who breaks the silence. “I am not sure what the matter is between you and de Thierry,” he remarks. “But whatever it is, do not push him. Let him be…” 

“You are very protective of him,” Raoul remarks impishly.

“I am, indeed,” de Rohan affirms, his voice solemn. “He had a very hard life, Raoul.”

Raoul is embarrassed to have teased his friend, but now feels the urge to probe further. De Thierry is a complete mystery. “At Bicêtre?” he ventures.

De Rohan continues his work, saying nothing. 

“So, you know about him? You know where he comes from?” Raoul insists.

“I know all I need to know,” de Rohan replies, his tone severe. He stops shoveling, and looks up towards Raoul, the air between them suddenly taut. "I was already a Musketeer when the Captain recruited him. If you expect me to tell you more, I will not. What I can tell you is that he had a hard life, and that becoming a Musketeer changed all of it. I admire de Thierry for that. I admire him for his strength and his courage. For what he has made of himself…” he adds with much feeling. Raoul has not seen his friend so affected before.

“He confuses me, Jean," Raoul bemoans. “I am never sure where I stand with him. I am always unable to say or do the right thing, no matter how much I try…”

“He can be difficult, that is true,” de Rohan smiles and it eases the tension between them. “But perhaps if you accepted him the way he is, rather than trying to figure him out, you may even end up liking him. Stop thinking of him as a mystery to be solved, and see him as the person he is: a little proud, a little arrogant, but fearless, strong, and loyal…”

“You are a better man than I will ever be, Jean,” Raoul chuckles, and de Rohan laughs. “Well your father seems to like him well,” de Rohan observes tilting his head towards the gallery above the courtyard, where Athos stands talking to de Thierry.

 

*******

“You are quick with your turns, de Thierry,” Athos advises. “It is an advantage that you must use especially with opponents who are bigger and stronger.” It is early, before the morning call at the Garrison, and the two of them cross swords alone in the courtyard. De Thierry retreats, breathless. “Captain,” he says, lowering his sword, “I will never be able to riposte against your direct offenses.” 

“Yes, you will… you will! That is why we shall train more.” Athos retorts. “Always remember three basic rules: never allow your opponent to draw you in, never overestimate your advantage, and never underestimate your opponent!”

He pats the young man on the shoulder, and offers him some water. They sit for a moment next to each other, taking a breath before they continue their lesson.  “De Thierry. It is an interesting name.” Athos observes. “Are you from the north, perchance? Thierry is close to la Fére where I was born.”

It is the opportunity de Thierry longed for his entire life. But now his mind is made. “No Captain,” he replies. “It is an assumed name, as I am sure you have guessed. I do not care for my real name. I come from nothing. I picked this name from the Song of Roland…” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1)  
> Composer: A. Boësset, 1587-1643  
> Lyrics, Anonymous  
> Published in 1609  
> Translation:  
> Our free and happy spirits  
> Thrive on these sweet diversions  
> And in such innocent pleasures  
> They banish all other desires
> 
> (2) The background story of Athos’ youth, including his relationship with Rochefort, his first encounter with M. de Treville, his connection to Lord de Winter, and how he became a Musketeer, is included in “Past Forgotten, Past Remembered” posted on AO3.
> 
> (3) Niccolò di Bernardo dei Machiavelli (1469-1527): politician, diplomat, historian, philosopher, writer, playwright and poet from Florence. His work has greatly influenced political science. Raoul here implies that he has read his famous treatise “The Prince” (Il Principe; distributed probably in 1513 and published in 1532, posthumously,) which lays the rules of how a “new prince” should be. This includes whether or not a prince can keep his word (chapter 18), his selection of nobles and staff (chapter 22) and the ways he deals with flatterers (chapter 23.) 
> 
> Charles de Marguetel de Saint-Denis, seigneur de Saint-Évremond (1 April 1613 – 29 September 1703) : soldier, essayist, and literary critic. He never authorized his works to be printed during his lifetime, although an unauthorized collection was printed in 1668. But in 1648 he was in Paris, and was a staunch royalist, so it is not impossible for Raoul as someone very involved in Parisian society and the court to have read or heard his views. In the essay “On Friendship” (published in “Ouevres en prose” in 1962-66, in three volumes edited by Rene Ternois,) Saint Evremont argues that social inequality impedes friendship. Thus, there can be no friendship between a prince and a courtier because of the social distance between them. In effect, the insincere and calculating courtier has better chances in a prince’s affections. In other words, social distance, demands false relationships.


	71. Carriage Rides

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucien finds a solution for one knotty problem, Suzanne begins her visit with a frightening event and meets a hero...

He gripped the huge anchor chain, took a deep breath and braced his feet. In one continuous movement – lifting the chain and twisting his body - he swung it with as much force as he could muster to crash against the side of the carriage and then dropped it heavily to the ground. He stood for a moment breathing hard and studying the damage. The side of the carriage was scarred and dented, the paint chipping and falling away in chunks. It looked like the carriage had been dumped its side and dragged across boulders. He was making progress.

‘You used to make hauling those chains look easy,’ remarked the mercenary sitting on a barrel against the side of the building. He was cutting an apple into pieces and popping them into his mouth. Lucien wondered idly why Martin bothered to cut pieces – he could have easily put the entire apple into those huge jaws and pulverized it.

‘I’m getting old,’ remarked Lucien. Martin nodded in agreement oblivious to Lucien’s scowl. He gestured to the destroyed carriage. ‘The purpose of this is not entirely clear to me.’

‘A good and charitable man needs a carriage to match his vow of poverty,’ said Lucien. ‘I am happy to oblige.’ It had been a perfect solution to the existence of the carriage in his possession – an ironic gift from heaven he thought. He braced his feet again and swung the anchor chain up and hard with a loud bang against the carriage.

‘Owww!’ came a shout from inside. Joseph stuck his head out the carriage window. ‘I thought you were coming through the side with that one!’ He opened the door and jumped down.

‘How is it looking?’ asked Lucien. ‘Properly torn, patched, ripped and torn again and patched again,’ replied Joseph. ‘I rubbed dirt into the floor for good effect. Fit for a priest.’ He grinned at Lucien and turned to inspect the carriage. ‘A few more I think sir,’ and sat down on the barrel next to Martin who passed him a piece of apple. They looked like a two-man panel of judges.

He narrowed his eyes at them and pulled the chain back into position. Under a bright sun in a cloudless sky, he had stripped off his tunic and shirt. He was naked to the waist. He drew the back of his hand across his forehead. The spring air was crisp, and it felt good against his skin. Sweat beaded on his brow and ran down his cheeks, his muscled chest and shoulders glistening in the sunlight.

The sound of girls giggling drifted down from the upper floor of an adjacent building. The men looked up and Martin guffawed, ‘putting on quite a show for those servant girls.'

'They’ll be swooning away watching those big muscles of yours!’ he laughed uproariously and waved as heads covered with caps and kerchiefs appeared over the sill of the window. They immediately disappeared amid a flurry of giggles.

‘Like little foxes along a hedgerow,’ the big soldier remarked. ‘Cute.’ It seemed an odd word for a man the size of Martin to use. With a grunt Lucien lifted the chain and banged it against the carriage.

An hour later they circled the carriage examining it carefully and declared it sufficiently vandalized for a pious priest. Lucien dunked his head into a water barrel and sluiced cold water on himself and pulled his shirt over his head. Joseph hitched a pair of badly mismatched horses and Lucien tied his stallion to the back of the carriage. He swung up onto the bench settling his broad brimmed hat on his head.

‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ he said touching finger to hat and lifted the reins. ‘Martin,’ he said to the mercenary. ‘three days.’ The big man nodded and watched the carriage sway as it rolled down the lane and turned into the road.

>  
As he drove the carriage down the drive toward the house the double doors opened, and the house steward emerged followed by his wife and daughter.

‘Good heavens,’ said Sophia coming down the stairs, ‘wherever did you get this monstrosity?’ She walked around the carriage. ‘She said not a new one. She didn’t say a wreck!’ Lucien grinned, ‘customized for Father de Paul. Her Grace was quite specific as to what a pious priest would reject.’

He jumped down and held the door for Suzanne. She was looking amused at his handiwork and peered inside drawing back sharply and looking wide-eyed, ‘I’m not riding in there.’ She glanced up at the bench. He frowned but drew his cloak around her pulling up the hood over her head. ‘Don’t let anyone see you.’ She giggled and he was reminded of the silly girls bobbing up and down in the window. Somehow, he was pleased.

‘I’ll be there later,’ called Sophia as they drove away down their drive. The city street was noisy and crowded – women in work dresses covered by aprons and kerchiefs tucked around their hair. Men in rough tunics and boots, some balancing boxes or bags on their shoulders strode through the streets. Street workers shoveled garbage and waste into small carts, merchants swept their storefronts and vendors bawled their wares as they pushed their carts along the road. Children seemed to be darting everywhere, miraculously avoiding horses and carriages.

She held a small handkerchief to her nose. ‘Noisy and not the scent of roses from mother’s garden,’ she said with a wrinkled nose. Her father laughed, ‘yes,’ he said, ‘it takes getting used to.

‘Are you learning the rules?’ he asked playfully. Suzanne was going to visit with the Duchess of Aiguillon to prepare for her visit to the palace.

‘Oh yes,’ she answered in the same playful tone, ‘how deep the curtsey, never turn your back, how many steps to retreat, wait to be offered a refreshment and no snatching seconds…’ she giggled again, ‘Rayya would miss the last one!’ and they both chuckled at the unbridled appetite of her younger sister. But the Duchess was kind and only wanted her to be confident of the etiquette of being presented to the queen. It was exciting, but as she glanced at her father, she thought she was also very happy to be riding atop a carriage with him through the streets of Paris rather than inside as proper decorum would require.

‘Here we are,’ he slid an amused smile at her, ‘breaking rules already.’ They grinned at each other and she slipped her arm through his and laid her head against his arm.

‘Well alright,’ he feigned capitulation to an unasked question, and handed her the reins, ‘you might as well drive too.’ She gasped but took the reins with delight and confidently navigated the carriage through the narrow and crowded streets, careful not to look at anyone. They covered the short distance to the Duchess’ home quickly.

He lifted her down sweeping his cloak from her and held it behind his back as the door opened. He winked at her and watched her disappear into the house. The stable boy untied his horse and drove the carriage around the back. He mounted and looked up at a front window where Suzanne was watching him, lifted his hand to her and wheeling the stallion he rode away.

>  
‘Is she an amiable person?’ asked Suzanne. They were in the garden behind the house. Suzanne had gazed down at the garden from the drawing room window where her father had done the same. She was eager to accept the Duchess’ invitation to walk there.

‘I brought a few new sketches for you,’ Suzanne had said holding out a small portfolio. ‘Let us take it with us,’ said the Duchess and tucked the portfolio under her arm.

They walked down a short wide staircase and across a manicured lawn. The air was crisp and scented with the coming of spring. New buds were greening the bare branches of the chestnut trees and the gardeners were turning over the soil in preparation to plant flower beds. The walkways meandered through the garden, the vine covering the arbor sprouting new tiny white flowers.

‘I suppose amiable is not quite the word to describe a queen,’ remarked the Duchess. ‘Her Majesty has many concerns as would befit a monarch – but she is a gracious lady. You must not worry.’ They walked past a large pond with lily pads clustering to one side, thick rushes growing in the shallows. Suzanne stopped to admire the less formal setting and rustic appeal.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘It reminds me of our pond at home.’ She had a wistful tone.

The Duchess led her to a small gazebo where they sat on a bench and looked back toward the house.

‘Do you miss your sisters and brother?’ she asked kindly. Suzanne nodded, ‘we are so much in each other’s company one would think time away would be welcomed.’ She glanced quickly at the older woman, ‘I am grateful to be here…but yes, I miss them.’

‘Tell me about them. What are their interests? Do they like their tutors?’ The Duchess leaned back against the seat, listening and watching. It was pleasant – sitting in her spring garden with Suzanne. Her unusual blue-green eyes sparkled as she regaled her with stories that drew vivid pictures of her sisters and brother – as an artist might with pencil or color. They laughed together at Samy’s antics to frighten his sisters with bugs and frogs.

Was this what it would be like to sit here with a granddaughter? Helping to guide her to be the woman she would become - preparing her to be received at court and enter the world that was her birthright. But this beautiful young woman was also Lucien’s daughter – fiercely intelligent and dreaming of a life as an artist and painting the world as she saw it. She opened the portfolio and lifted a sketch of an old woman. She was sitting at a rough wooden table in a small cottage bent over her work. Suzanne had focused her attention on the woman’s hands – working hands that were strong, veined and gnarled that moved the bobbins and wove the thread into beautiful and intricate patterns of lace to adorn the clothing of aristocrats. She feared the artist’s sympathies and admiration were too apparent.

‘Your skill is remarkable,’ she said as her fingers hovered over the veined, roughened hands. Suzanne said eagerly, ‘I hope M Poussin will think it worthy. I know I have a great deal to learn.’

The Duchess placed the drawing back in the portfolio, ‘do you think you will want to marry? Have a family? Or will you be content to pursue your art?’

Suzanne blushed, ‘Father has said he will not choose for me – unless I want him too.’ She looked thoughtful, ‘I would like to be a mother,’ she said softly, ‘but, I could not give up my art.’

‘Let us go inside,’ the Duchess suggested. ‘Your mother shall arrive soon. We shall practice our curtsies,’ she smiled impishly. Suzanne held out a hand to help her stand and she took the arm of the younger woman as they walked back to the house.

>  
The carriage lurched abruptly and bumped hard over something, there were crashing sounds and people shouting. It came to an abrupt stop, and they would have been tossed to the floor but for her mother throwing her arm out to brace a hand against the side of the carriage and the other to stop her falling off the seat. ‘Are you alright?’ her mother asked quickly moving toward the carriage window to look outside.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Is it an accident?’ Mother didn’t answer. They could hear the shouting of men outside – loud voices coming from all around the carriage. There were a series of loud knocks against the rear of the carriage that jarred the seat.

Suzanne sucked in her breath – was it a robbery! But they had nothing of value – oh no! would they steal their beautiful horses?

Suzanne slid forward, one hand on the seat to balance herself and peered out the window watching through the window. The carriage had been diverted to the side of the busy street. People were gathering to watch whatever was going outside the large ducal carriage. She was sure they had hit something or someone. There was clearly a scuffle as the footmen and driver were dragged from their positions. Mother was not opening the door but continued to look anxiously out the window.

‘Good heavens! It seems we hit a stall!’ she fumbled for the latch. ‘There’s a woman on the ground!’ She was trying to open the door. Suddenly her back stiffened and she muttered angrily. She turned to her daughter.

‘Under no circumstances do you get out of the carriage.’ Her voice was tight with anger, but Suzanne heard the undercurrent of alarm. ‘Do you understand?’ What her mother meant was, ‘you must obey me!’ Suzanne nodded squeezing her hands together to suppress a sudden rush of fear.

‘Is it a robbery?’ she whispered. If Father had thought that was possible, he would have sent guards with them in addition to the footman. Neither of her parents had talked about this danger to her.

Her mother shook her head, ‘nothing so simple,’ she said with disdain for whomever it was outside the carriage that was blocking their progress. She put her hand on the latch and looked back one more time, ‘stay here.’ Suzanne nodded. Her mother turned the latch.

A man on a horse was blocking the door preventing it from being fully opened. He was shouting at her. To see the face of the rider, Sophia would have to crane her neck upward. She refused and instead banged the door into the horse – hard. The surprised animal started nervously and caught the rider unawares, forcing him to let the horse back up. She could hear him swearing.

‘Madame!’ he bawled imperiously and yanking the door from her hand, ‘I demand that you comply with my orders. Step out of the carriage – now!’

Comminges.

Fury - hot and intense raced through her from toes to scalp. She would not be able to control Lucien – he would kill this man – a Queen’s guard. And then they would arrest him. Think! She must not let this spiral out of control.

She looked toward where the footman and the carriage driver were standing with pistols pointed at them. The grim faces of her servants told her that they were waiting for her to decide if they would fight back. They would be killed – but they would die trying to defend her and her daughter.

Comminges was not waiting for her. He thrust his body through the door forcing her back onto the bench. His eyes widened in surprise at Suzanne, his gaze running quickly over her and then again, slower and in open admiration. Sophia positioned herself between him and her daughter. He was close enough for her to smell his foul breath and feel the heat from his sweating face.

‘Get out,’ she said tautly. He turned his reptile eyes to her. ‘Or…?’ he sneered. Or I use my fingers to gouge your eyes from their sockets she thought.

‘Or I cannot get out,’ she replied. Her voice was calm, she held herself so rigidly she thought her spine would snap. ‘Or perhaps you can already see what is obvious – two women traveling in a carriage to their home.’

He stared at her, ‘I think there is a great deal that is not obvious about you Your Grace,’ he mocked her, but his eyes shifted again to Suzanne. He was going to use her in this confrontation.

‘You are Grimaud’s daughter,’ he said rubbing his chin. ‘Do you know what your father does? What he is?’ Suzanne stared back at him impassively. Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure the man could hear it. She squeezed her hands into fists. Her mother shifted again to block his view of her.

‘You will address me alone,’ she ordered angrily. Inadvertently, Suzanne extended her hand to touch her mother’s back. She sensed that her mother was trying to control her anger and not explode in indignation at this man.

‘Your father is a traitor! The Queen is going to arrest him and hang him so all of Paris can watch his corpse rot!’

Comminges’ shout reverberated inside the carriage and he lunged closer to Sophia, ‘get out of this carriage Madame or I will drag you out.’

‘Madame,’ cried her driver and the guard clubbed him senseless. He fell to the ground and lay still. The footman started toward the injured man, the guard brandished his pistol, ‘do you want to die here?’

Comminges moved back through the door of the carriage and turned to see the commotion. Sophia did not hesitate. She shoved as hard as she could to push him out of the carriage. He was off balance and staggered slightly. He swore loudly and grabbed her arm to pull her from the carriage.

‘Horrified, Suzanne screamed, ‘Mother! Let her go!’ she shouted at the man. Without thinking she hurled herself toward the door and her mother’s attacker.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ a man’s voice spoken with authority and displeasure. ‘Let go of her now!’ the voice commanded.

A tall man mounted on a great black horse. He was glowering at the guard who was holding onto her mother, his hand hovering over his pistol. He was young, but his face had a hard and rugged look. His mouth was set in a stern angry line and he seemed a man who knew how to handle trouble. Large capable gloved hands were managing the agitated horse. He was wearing a black tunic, and on one shoulder – a leather pauldron.

Suzanne sucked in her breath – a Musketeer.


	72. Clues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pieces of the puzzle start falling into place...

**Author: Mordaunt**

 

_“…truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long;_  
_a man’s son may, but at the length truth will out.”_  
_(William Shakespeare, 1564-1616, The Merchant of Venice. Act 2. Scene 2. Launcelot speaking)_

The message waits under his door when he returns from his early morning lesson with de Thierry, as if left by an invisible hand. Athos picks it up and reads. It is short and cryptic:

> _“Friend,_
> 
> _Welcome to Paris. You are expected at noon at the usual meeting place. Bring the young man along.”_

There is a stamped image of a sling where the signature ought to be.

It is a dangerous proposition, Athos thinks, to walk through Paris at midday alongside Raoul. Then again, he recalls Alessandra’s advice about hiding in plain sight. On a fine day like this, streets will be very busy by noon. He wonders why Raoul is invited. He is determined to keep Raoul out of politics, although he had promised back in Venice, to involve him in the mission to change Aramis’ mind and help the starving people of Paris. Athos wonders if this secret meeting has something to do with the suspicions against Raoul, and so despite his misgivings, he decides to follow the instructions in the message.

*********

“I wish I could join you,” Raoul intimates. He sheathes his sword, while his three comrades lead their horses out of the stables. It is a cold morning but it is bright with a cloudless sky, the signs of early spring in the air. The Garrison courtyard is buzzing with activity as the entire regiment, including recruits is training in preparation of the King’s upcoming progress, and his visit to his uncle at Orléans.

“What? You object to all the fine training you will receive here instead?” M. Marchal teases.

“Lord de Winter needs protection while he is in Paris,” de Rohan remarks loud enough in case they are overheard, “and the Captain insists you remain with him at all times and follow his orders …”

“Besides, you get to stay and exercise while we go out to investigate on your behalf. One for All, All for One, remember? Of course, it means that you owe us now,” de Thierry observes. He sounds serious. In the past, Raoul would have taken him at his word, and think this a provocation. But he can hear the playfulness in the Musketeer’s tone, and detects an impish glint in his hazel eyes. He wonders how he could have been so oblivious before. He bows deeply imitating de Thierry’s serious tone. “I am indeed in your debt, Messieurs!”

“True!” M. Marchal chimes in. “Your debt increases daily… Are you keeping tally M. de Rohan?”

“Definitely!” M. de Rohan retorts ruefully. "I fear, you may have to join the Musketeers now to repay a debt that steep, Vicomte!”

“ _Sang Dieu_ , Lieutenant! You are right! But is he really up to it?” de Thierry feigns skepticism.  

“My new stable cleaning skills will surprise even you, M. de Thierry!” Raoul declares with an expression so formal that it is impossible for anyone to keep a straight face. 

“That is what we feared!” de Thierry intones, laughing. “Take care of our English friend today!” the Musketeer exclaims, as the three move their horses through the Garrison gate. “You are far better with the sword than with the spade, Bragelonne!” de Thierry’s voice echoes from the street.

**********

Athos knows about the house at the Rue de Lombards close to St. Merri, although he has never visited it. It is owned by Madame de Longueville (1), and is used as a meeting place for the most prominent leaders of the Fronde. That is where Alessandra met with Madame de Montbazon (2), the duc de Beaufort’s most ardent advocate, and where she received the plans of Vincennes they used for his escape. It is empty but for a bakery at the level of the street owned by a retired soldier called Planchet (3) and his wife. M. Planchet works as a baker by day, and is one of the militia commanders by night, a close friend of M. de Louviéres (4,) who leads all militia troops. “The young lord stays here with me,” Madame Planchet, the baker’s wife, declared when they entered, holding Raoul back. “You go upstairs alone, Milord.” She smiled, and offered Raoul a seat at a table covered with pies and freshly baked cakes.

Alessandra had described the house in great detail: the windows give a full view of Les Innocents, the cemetery on one side, and the Châtelet (5) on the other. A perfect location for conspirators, she had remarked half-seriously, half-jokingly. There is a constant reminder of where you will end up, whether you like it or not, outside every window.

The meeting room is upstairs, spacious and wood paneled with a view to the Châtelet. The old threadbare curtains are drawn, letting in just faded, pale light. It casts a peculiar misty shadow, part darkness, part dust and stale air.  There is no furniture besides two chairs and a large empty desk. The planks of the wooden floor under Athos’ feet feel rather loose, and creak with his every move. The room is damp and cold, whiffs of old embers and burned wood emanating from the empty fireplace, occasionally disturbed by the fragrance of baked dough from the bakery below.

“The Captain must be a very loyal friend of yours, Comte,” Athos’ host remarks. “Keeping you in the Musketeer Garrison places him one step away from treason.” Athos’ host, is M. de Gondi, the Coadjutor (6), the most influential political leader of the Fronde alongside Madame de Longueville. He sits behind the desk, cloaked, with his hands crossed over his chest. 

“Captain d’ Artagnan is indeed loyal, Monseigneur,” Athos replies. “He trusts in your discretion. We both do.”

M. de Gondi shrugs and opens his hands gesturing that such discretion is to be expected, “I am a man of God, M. le Comte,” he observes. There is something in his tone of voice that makes Athos uneasy. He always mistrusted men of God involved in politics, beginning with Richelieu. The one here is perhaps not as powerful, but definitely as devious. “I received a message from your brilliant wife that you are in Paris,” M. Coadjutor continues. “You are taking a great risk, Comte. I understand your motives for I know about the events that brought you back. But I must caution that you are placing our cause in danger with your presence in Paris.”

“I understand,” Athos replies. “But my son’s safety is my only concern.”

“Your son, the Vicomte, appears to me a very capable young man, who can navigate court intrigues better than you or me. He has helped us immensely, despite the fact that he used my carriage to assist the Prime Minister and the Royal Family escape to Rouen. But if it were not for his actions and quick thinking that night, pretending to be a defender of the Prime Minister, our plan to break M. de Beaufort out of the Vincennes would have had completely different outcomes for all of us.”

“Now he is the one who needs protection, M. Coadjutor,” Athos interjects. Raoul is too young, Athos reckons to be burdened with everyone’s safety in this manner, while his own safety is at stake for a murder he did not commit.

“I understand he is the King’s friend, Comte!” M. de Gondi shrugs. “I would say he is much better protected than me, or you! The affair with the actress renders him a man of a certain reputation. Cecille du Pouget was the new queen of the stage. She was bound to outshine even the great Filandre. She was an exquisite creature. I saw her on stage: a rare beauty and a rare talent. She was also a capricious little liar, who played one lover against another. She could have any man, and many lined outside her door. She preferred the Vicomte above all...”

Athos stands up exasperated, pushing his seat backwards against the creaking floor. He walks to the window, his arms crossed behind his back. “None of this can be an excuse for her death,” he mutters.

“No, of course not,” the Coadjutor retorts. “But that is how one makes a lot of enemies. Jealous lovers can be ruthless and unforgiving not just of those they love but also of those they consider their rivals.”

“Lucien Grimaud was not her lover if that is what you imply, Monseigneur!” Athos interjects turning his head towards his interlocutor, his tone dismissive. No matter his feelings for Lucien Grimaud, the man does not deserve this kind of slander.  

“Who?” M. de Gondi exclaims clearly astonished. “The privateer?” He chuckles. “Oh yes, I have heard those ridiculous rumors. They are absurd. I know the man: stealthy, slippery, and very able. Doesn’t he have daughters that girl’s age? No, I do not mean Lucien Grimaud at all. I mean all those others, who flocked to receive the girl’s attentions, many of them from court: M. de Guiche, M. d’ Aumont, M. Fouquet, M. de Wardes, M. d’ Daillon, M. de Renard… (7) All ambitious, all wealthy, and some quite ruthless.

De Renard! Athos attention is drawn to the name immediately. He has not forgotten d’ Artagnan’s urgent message about Catherine, widow of the old Baron de Renard, and her son, both of them now in the Queen’s retinue.  “Who is M. de Renard?” he inquires feigning ignorance, unable to suppress his curiosity.

“A nobody from the north,” the Coadjutor sneers, “but he is a friend of de Wardes, and that is an important somebody…”

Athos recalls that name from the days of his early life as a gentleman in the court of Louis XIII. “I knew his father,” is all he says with disinterest.

“A perverted man, if there was one,” M. de Gondi raises his hands in the air as if trying to absolve himself of the man’s memory. “The young de Wardes is wealthy, powerful, and matches his father in vice. Consider that all these young men were vying for a taste of the little peach from the Marais as she was called in many circles,” he chuckles, and Athos shudders with disgust. “They are also all flocking around the young King vying for a place in his new court. So, you see Monsieur, there are many, who would consider the Vicomte a rival both in love and in politics. But he is a peer in Venice, and no one will ever formally accuse a peer, and the King’s best friend for the death of some foolish girl, who should have been more careful with her love affairs…”

“Are you saying it is her fault she was murdered?” Athos sounds incredulous. “Are you saying her life is worth nothing because she was simply an actress?” This is a man of God after all, Athos thinks with great dismay, a man who claims that his cause is to fight for the common people.

“It is not for me, a humble man, to determine whose fault her death is,” M. de Gondi retorts assuming the mild manner of a priest. “But I want to assure you that your son is in no real danger. This is just Paris.  It is the world we live in. The Vicomte, it seems to me, is very capable of thriving in it. I am told he receives invitations from the most desirable quarters. He ignores them these days, a fact that increases his notoriety, and the anticipation for his return to society.  The Marquise de Rambouillet (8) is very eager to welcome him back. According to M. Loret (9) who is the natural authority in all matters of society, a number of ladies have declared they prefer the Vicomte above all others now. This includes Mademoiselle d’ Aubigné (10), to the dismay of her lover, M. Scarron (11). He, being a poet, has not remained unaffected by this tragic love story. I am sure you have seen this,” M. Coadjutor adds, handing Athos a pamphlet entitled _“The Travails of Love.”_  It is a set of verses and epigrams contrasted to each other as “ _proof_ ,” M. Scarron writes on the cover page, _“of the anguish and struggles of love.”_ Athos turns to the first page, and next to the epigram:  _“I am unable, the noble lover cries, to see beyond her cruelty and lies,_ ” he reads:  

 

> _“His reason assured him as much as his eyes,_
> 
> _How charming and beautiful she was,_
> 
> _The shining jewel of the Marais,_
> 
> _The student of Corneille and du Ryer,_
> 
> _A shooting star in the night sky,_
> 
> _Shining from the stage,_
> 
> _Blinding her admirers after the curtain fell._
> 
> _But it might have served him better,_
> 
> _To have seen her cruelty,_
> 
> _Before surrendering his reason to her deceitful grace.”_ (12)

Athos, exhales attempting to suppress his rage, and throws the pamphlet on the desk with disgust. He had a vague notion of what being “a man of a certain reputation” means, but suddenly he realizes that his son’s name is spoken about, printed in ink, and circulated among bored greedy aristocrats, who feed on gossip.

Remove him from Paris now, he thinks. Find a way to return with him to Blois, or better, send him back to his uncle in Venice. But the futility of the endeavor strikes him immediately: it is not so much his own risk, or Raoul’s ties to the Musketeers. The real difficulty is inscribed in one name: Louis, the future king of France, his son’s friend, the one who demands Raoul remains close to him. Athos taps his finger on the pamphlet, his voice slightly trembling. “This is despicable!” he exclaims.

“My dear Comte,” M. Coadjutor replies in a patronizing tone. “It is understandable. You have been away from Paris for too long. Has it been ten, twelve years? There is nothing despicable at all in these clever verses, nor with any other part of the story. Quite the opposite. I would argue, the Vicomte’s prestige is significant, and it renders him immune. It can also further our cause.”

“My son’s dishonor, can further our cause!” Athos chuckles, irate.

The Coadjutor ignores his interlocutor’s rage and continues in his mild, calculating manner: “He is close to the King. Closer to the Prime Minister than you can ever be. He is a man whose reputation raises him to the top of Parisian society. He is among the most distinguished gentlemen in the King’s company seconded only by M. de Guiche. He is daring and courageous. He is attuned to our cause. His ingenious plan the night of the escape to Rouen proves that. Why not involve him more?”

“Absolutely not!” Athos retorts, in a tone that permits no further argument. Back in Venice Raoul had asked to be involved, Athos reminds himself, and he had promised to let him get involved. What was he thinking? How could he have been so reckless, first with Alessandra, whose life he almost sacrificed alongside the life of their unborn daughter, and now with his son? His sense of guilt is worse than his anger. “No!” he insists.

“Then,” the M. de Gondi shrugs as if it is the simplest thing, “we shall discuss this matter no more.” He would have liked to speak to the young man, who waits downstairs. That is the reason he wanted the Vicomte here. But witnessing his father’s disapproval, he decides that an ally of the Vicomte’s intelligence and independence is someone he would rather approach himself away from his father’s influence. He stretches himself back in his chair, ignoring Athos’ displeasure. “As you may know, the new Ambassador from Venice is M. Michiel Morosini (13,) one of your wife’s relatives. He is an affable man, and I am told Her Majesty is favorably inclined towards him. He sends you and your wife this,” M. Coadjutor says handing a letter to Athos. It is addressed to the Comte and Comtesse de la Fére, and the seal is stamped with the Sword-wielding Winged Lion of the Serenissima.  Athos has no doubt that the letter is about the Duc de Beaufort, who now lives in Venice, in the palace of the Doge, Domenico Morosini, who is Alessandra’s uncle. Athos breaks the seal and reads, his suspicions confirmed:

> _“Cousins,_
> 
> _I write in haste and with great trepidation for I am well aware of your precarious position, and the implications of my communication with you being intercepted. Our uncle Domenico asks that I convey to you his views about his French guest in Venice, and give you a warning. The man is surprisingly bereft of any substantial education and intelligence, yet he counterbalances those weaknesses with a strong sense of all that is owed to him as a birthright in his native land. Our uncle sees a man with no loyalties to anyone except to those who shall grant him what he desires. But he is good with cards, and knows how to lose, which he does often. Our uncle wants me to tell you that his guest has been receiving regular correspondence with the royal seal of France, and the seal of the French Prime Minister. He advises that you act accordingly based on this information._
> 
> _In loyalty,_
> 
> _Michiel Morosini”_

******

Seated at Madame Planchet’s bakery Raoul leans back in his chair, and washes down the fragrant freshly baked raisin bun with the sweet wine he was offered. Sweet wine, he thinks. It has been ages since he had any. The image flashes suddenly before his eyes. It does not feel like a dream. It feels like something he witnessed while dreaming… 

> _Someone hands him a glass of wine._
> 
> _“Some sweet wine, my love?” the voice asks. A soft, melodious voice._
> 
> _Cecille’s…_

******

M. de Thierry separates from his two comrades. He is determined to follow any information he can find about the black carriage seen outside the Marais. “Which gate today?” M. Marchal asks. “St. Antoine first” de Thierry retorts. “I have been there before, and heard some fascinating stories about a spectral carriage that appeared out of thin air. Now I have heard the same story from guards at other gates. Then it I plan to go to St. Victor Gate, where they say a guard died of pure terror having seen this spectral carriage.” He keeps riding towards the Bastille while his comrades turn towards the Rue Vielle du Temple. Almost at the corner with the Rue des Francs Bourgeois, M. Marchal suddenly holds back his horse. “Look over there, Lieutenant!” He points towards a large carriage with a ducal crest on its door. It is stopped at the side of the road.

“What of it?” M. de Rohan retorts but he immediately notices what M. Marchal has seen. There are three cavaliers on the other side of the carriage. It appears that their leader is talking to the passengers, but on closer inspection what is happening is something altogether different. The two Musketeers slow down their horses, and approach carefully. All three horsemen are Queen’s Guards, and their leader is none other than M. de Comminges. The two Guards are keeping the coachman and the footmen at gun point, and de Comminges holds the carriage door open, while one of the passengers, a lady, for they can see her laced sleeve, is desperately trying to close it.

“What is that fool doing?” de Rohan whispers irate. “Do the Queen’s Guards intimidate women in the street now?”

“Not any woman, Lieutenant!” M. Marchal remarks. “Look at that crest. This is Madame de la Croix…”

“De la Croix?” de Rohan exclaims. "As in…"

“As in Lucien Grimaud’s wife!" M. Marchal intones, pressing his horse now towards the carriage. “I will take care of this Lieutenant!” he declares. “I will meet you at the Marais!”

******

“These are marvelous costumes Madame,” M. de Rohan observes. He pushes aside a mask and a tall feathered headdress, and sits at the edge of an old faded settee at the back of what at night becomes the stage of the Marais. Above him, a tangle of thick ropes and hooks sway and jangle with every draft, their constant motion almost hypnotic: one of the three large stage machines the Marais is famous for. Madame Petit, lifts up her head with a smile. She sits on a low stool, an enormous red and green velvet skirt spread over her knees. She is carefully embroidering large lily flowers with small golden beads. She is surrounded by piles of colorful costumes, hanging on chairs, thrown on tables, and piled on the floor, all waiting for alterations and mending.

“Oh yes, Monsieur!” Madame Petit replies with great pride. “Now that we have the patronage of their Majesties, M. Robin spares no expense in furnishing us with the most expensive materials for our costumes. I fear still, we cannot compare with the excellence of M. Filandre’s costumes,” she adds, tilting her eyes towards a magnificent deep blue brocade doublet with an elegant motif of small medallions made of silk gold thread, and adorned with large red and blue semi-precious stones. 

“That is indeed magnificent,” M. de Rohan remarks. He is not certain what adjective could adequately describe a piece of clothing this unusual, so he settles for “magnificent” thinking it is vague enough. He has never seen a man wearing anything as opulent and ostentatious as this, and he has spent quite a few years around some of the most eccentric people both at court and among Parisians. “I gather then that M. Robin does not pay for M. Filandre’s costumes?” he asks still somewhat mesmerized by the way the doublet glimmers, almost emanating light.

“No!” Madame Petit, raises her eyes again, putting her needle down. “Even with the King’s patronage, he could not afford something like this!” she chuckles pointing at the doublet. “M. Filandre has many powerful friends, and one very wealthy patron!”

“He must be wealthy indeed,” M. de Rohan mutters, “spending so lavishly on the costumes of an actor!”

“M. Filandre is not _any_ actor!” Madame Petit observes rather testily. “He is the King of the Theater in Paris. His patron is very wealthy, indeed. This doublet is nothing to him!” she boasts.

“A Maecenas then!” M. de Rohan exclaims feigning admiration.

“Oh, yes indeed Monsieur!” she retorts with excitement.

“I wonder who that might be,” M. de Rohan muses. “Not His Majesty certainly?”

“No, Monsieur,” the lady retorts in a conspiratorial tone dragging her little stool closer to him and whispering. “M. Filandre keeps the man’s identity a secret, but…”

“…but there are not many secrets here…” M. de Rohan smiles, his blue eyes shining playfully. She lowers her coal black eyes in a manner at once bashful and inviting. “And you dear Madame,” the Musketeer continues, taking her hand, “are a woman of great intuition, who keeps such valuable secrets…”

“…very close to my heart,” the lady adds, now seated just a breath away from him.

“I would be very grateful to partake of such secrets, dear lady,” M. de Rohan whispers leaning towards her, and kissing her hand. She blushes, fluttering her eyelids.

“I think he may be foreign,” she confides almost breathless. “I have never seen him but I have seen his coachman often. Short, very muscular, never speaks. He also looks foreign…”

“Coachman…” M. de Rohan presses on, whispering in her ear. “A patron as wealthy as this must have quite a coach…”

She distances herself, and lowers her eyes as if caught in a lie. She still keeps his hand in hers and very close to her breast. “Oh Monsieur, forgive me!” she mutters. “I was so upset when my sweet little angel was killed. I should have mentioned it then…”

“You know you can trust me, Madame!” de Rohan encourages her touching her cheek.

“I am certain of it now Monsieur,” she retorts with a feeble smile. “I have always suspected that M. Filandre introduced my sweet little angel to his patron. I thought it a great thing. Imagine what riches a man like that might lavish upon such a precious jewel.” Her voice breaks as if she is trying to suppress her sobs.

M. de Rohan pretends to be affected by her tears, and hands her his handkerchief. She wipes her eyes slowly, a silent thank you on her lips. “Why did you suspect that dearest Madame?” he insists, keeping his tone gentle, and his voice soft.

“His carriage Monsieur,” she retorts. “It was the same black carriage that people talk about. It was driven by the same man, that silent foreigner.”

“Do you know the coachman’s name, Madame?” M. de Rohan tries to contain his excitement, and not only maintain his composure but play the part of the enchanted cavalier to the very end of this charade.

“No, Monsieur! I must explain that I did not really like the look in the man’s eyes. But I overheard Artus one of the stage hands, saying that he saw the coachman drinking at the ‘Chevalier au cigne,’ the tavern at the Port de Saint Paul.”

M. de Rohan kisses the lady’s hands with great fervor, as he springs to his feet. “Dearest Madame!” he exclaims, “You have my eternal gratitude. In my many years at court and around ladies of society I have never met a woman as beautiful and intelligent as yourself!”

He motions to exit the theater as the lady lowers her eyes with a coy smile. She places a hand on her chest, seemingly to slow the beatings of her heart.

 

\-----

NOTES

  1. Madame de Longueville : Anne Geneviève de Bourbon(28 August 1619 – 5 April 1679) French princess, daughter of Henri de BourbonPrince of Condé, wife of Henri II d'Orléans, duc de Longueville. She is known for her beauty and romantic affairs, her influence during the two Frondes (two civil wars,) and her final conversion to Janseism. After 1646 she became enamored of the Duke of La Rochefoucauld, the author of the  _Maxims_ , who made use of her love to obtain influence over her brother Louis II (in this story we call him M. le Prince,) and thus win honors for himself. She was the guiding spirit of the first Fronde (which is when our story takes place,) and she brought overArmand de Bourbon, Prince de Conti, her second brother, and her husband to the side of the Frondeurs, but she failed to attract Condé himself. The peace at the end of the first Fronde did not satisfy her, although La Rochefoucauld won the titles he desired. The second Fronde was largely her work, and in it she played the most prominent part in attracting first Condé and later Turenne to the rebels. In the last year of the war, she was accompanied into Aquitaine by the Duke of Nemours, an intimacy which gave La Rochefoucauld an excuse to abandon her, and immediately return to his former mistress the duchesse de Chevreuse(also a character in this story.)


  1. Madame de Montbazon : Madame Montbazon: Marie d’ Avaugour de Bretagne (1612-1657), Duchess de Montbazon, second wife of the Duc de Montbazon, father of Madame de Chevreuse. She was de Beaufort’s mistress. 


  1. Planchet : In the Dumas novels, Planchet is d’ Artagnan’s servant. He is a fascinating character that unfortunately did not make it to the BBC series. Grimaud is another fascinating character. In Dumas he is Athos’ loyal servant. He also never made it to the series as such, although the character of the villain “Lucien” was given the last name “Grimaud.” In Twenty Years After, Planchet is very involved in the Fronde and runs a bakery which he uses as cover. The bakery is very important in the later novels, as is Planchet and his wife, whose money e.g., is crucial for restoring Charles II to power! I thought it would be fun to include this wonderful character somehow in this story.


  1. M. de Louvieres : Louviéres Jerôme Broussel, seigneur de Louviéres, son of Pierre Broussel. When le Clere du Tremblay, Governor of the Bastille, surrendered to the Frondeurs in Jan. 1649, Pierre Broussel replaced him as Governor. However, he passed his functions to his son Jerôme. Dumas uses him as a character in Twenty Years After. The character here is inspired by Dumas. However, the action M. Louviéres is part of in this story is not found in Dumas. 


  1. Châtelet (i.e.,Grand Châtelet): a stronghold/fortress. In this period, it contained a court, prisons, and a morgue. Its reputation was worse than the Bastille.


  1. M. de Gondi/ Coadjutor : Jean François Paul de Gondi (1613-1679) was named Coadjutor to his uncle the Bishop of Paris in 1643 and became a cardinal (Cardinal Retz) in 1652. He was the Archbishop of Paris, and a leading figure in opposing Mazarin in the first Fronde, but rallied to the Queen’s party in the second. He is a significant character in Dumas’ Twenty Years After. 


  1. "M. de Guiche, M. d’ Aumont, M. Fouquet, M. de Wardes, M. d’ Daillon, M. de Renard"



All these characters are historical except de Renard who is fictional. All connections among these characters in this story are also fictional.

  * Armand de Gramont Comte de Guiche (1637-1673).This is a character we have seen before in this story.
  * Nicolas Fouquet, marquis de Belle-Île, vicomte de Melun et Vaux(1615 –1680) was born in Paris and son of a noble family. He becomes the Superintendent of Finances in France from 1653-1661 under Louis XIV. He had a glittering career, and acquired enormous wealth. He fell out of favor, accused of peculation (maladministration of the state's funds) and lèse-majesté (actions harmful to the well-being of the monarch). The king had him imprisoned from 1661 until his death in 1680. He was arrested while the King was a guest in his home, by none other than d’ Artagnan. Dumas uses this historical fact in The Man in the Iron Mask.
  * De Wardes François-René Crespin Du Bec (1620-1688), Marquis de Vardes, Captain of the Cent-Suisses. This is a character we have seen before in this story.
  * Henry de Daillon, marquis d’Illiers, duc du Lude, et Anjou (1622-1685). He became First Gentleman of the King’s Chamber ( _Premier Gentilhomme de la Chambre du Roi_ ; 1653-1669). He was made governor of the château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye where Louis XIV was born. Originally, he was a Comte until Louis XIV raised him to a peerage.
  * Louis-Marie-Victor d'Aumont de Rochebaron(1632–1704) was a French Army officer and courtier who served Louis XIV in various capacities, including as  _Premier Gentilhomme de la Chambre du Roi_  and as Governor of Paris.


  1. Marquise de Rambouillet : Catherine de Vivonne, marquise de Rambouillet(1588–1665), known as Madame de Rambouillet, was a society hostess and a major figure in the literary history of 17th-century France.The  _Hôtel de Rambouillet_ maintained its importance as aliterary salon until the mid-17th century. It begins to decline during the Fronde, after the death of Vincent Voiture, a poet who was considered the “soul” of the circle, in 1648 but continues until the death of the Marquis de Rambouillet in 1652. Almost all major personalities of the French aristocracy, literature, and the arts frequented it. In the spring and summer, the marquis and marquise would entertain their guests in their château and its beautiful park.


  1. M. Loret : Jean Loret(ca 1600-1665) was a French writer and poet known for publishing the weekly news of Parisian society from 1650 until 1665 in verse in what he called a gazette burlesque. He is sometimes referred to as the "father of journalism" as a result of his topical writings.Much of what he published would not be different from a contemporary “gossip column.”


  1. Mademoiselle d’ Aubignè: Françoise (1635-1719) married Scarron in 1652. As Madame de Maintenon she became governess of the royal children and the children of Madame de Montespan the royal mistress of Louis XIV. After the death of Queen Henrietta Maria she married Louis XIV in a secret ceremony in 1684.


  1. M. Scarron: Paul Scarron (1610-1660) was a burlesque poet, author, and playwright. He was crippled by tubercular rheumatism by the age of 30 although Dumas ascribes his disability to an accident (this was the prevalent rumor.) In 1648 he was recipient of the Queen’s patronage, thus he was known as “The Queen’s Patient.” He married Mademoiselle d’ Aubignè in 1652.


  1. The verse, and the pamphlet are made up. However the verse was inspired by an actual verse by Paul Scarron entitled “Chanson : Ma raison me l'a dit aussi bien...” 



Ma raison me l'a dit aussi bien que mes yeux,  
Que vous estiez toute charmante et belle ;  
Mais elle eust fait bien mieux  
De m'advertir que vous estiez cruelle.

  1. Michiel Morosini: It just so happens that the ambassador of Venice to France in 1648 was a certain Michiel Morosini (source: _Calendar of State Papers Relating To English Affairs in the Archives of Venice, Volume 28, 1647-1652_ , ed. Allen B Hinds (London, 1927), pp. 76-79.  _ _British History Online.__ In this story Milady de Winter’s real name is Alessandra Francesca Morosini and she belongs to the Morosini family from Venice. 

 

 



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	73. Heroes

Comminges was enraged at her resistance. How dare she defy him! He gripped her wrist, baring his teeth in a smile at her grimace of pain and dragged her from the carriage. She landed awkwardly and fell at his feet. He glared at the man who dared to challenge his authority.

The crowd of bystanders had grown. There was a low murmur of voices, some louder than others as Comminges and the ducal crest were recognized. The mood had intensified ominously at the arrival of the Musketeer. He had a look of disbelief at the scene unfolding in front of him. The leader of the Queen’s guards, Comminges was actually hauling the Duchess de la Croix from her carriage.

‘Unhand her!’ the Musketeer ordered loudly dismounting as he spoke and taking long determined strides to confront the officer. He ignored the three other guards standing with pistols drawn on the footman and the unconscious coach driver.

‘Let her go,’ he growled again and reached to take her arm and pull her to her feet. He didn’t take his eyes from Comminges.

For a moment Sophia was suspended between the two men. She turned her face toward the Musketeer suddenly feeling faint with relief. Comminges abruptly released his grip shoving her away from him with a disgusted snort. She fell against the Musketeer who gripped her around the waist to steady her. She looked up at him and their eyes met.

Concern and anger filled his dark eyes – and something else she could not identify. She thought she recognized him. He scanned her face quickly, ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘can you stand?’ She nodded, unsure if she could trust her voice. She took a deep breath.

‘Yes,’ she said unsteadily. Her eyes darted toward the carriage, ‘my daughter…’

This must be the young woman – more girl than woman he thought – standing just outside the carriage her hands to her mouth and visibly shaking. ‘Mother!’ she cried her eyes swinging wildly between the two men and her mother.

‘Go back inside the carriage Mlle,’ the Musketeer told her firmly. The Duchess was standing, one hand on his arm.  
‘Alright?’ he asked, and she nodded. He let go of her and turned his attention to Comminges.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ he demanded. The crowd had fallen silent. The situation had escalated to a confrontation between Musketeer and Queen’s guard.

‘You will not interfere with the Queen’s guard!’ Comminges was imperious as he glared at the Musketeer. ‘How dare you attack me!’

Just kill him thought Sophia. The Musketeer was assessing the danger - there were four armed men in front of him and two frightened women who could get hurt. He had to make it clear to Comminges that he was obliged to help a lady, but if there were arrest orders from the Queen… Would Comminges go so far as to say so?

‘Do you claim you accosted the Duchess de la Croix under the Queen’s orders?’ he asked. ‘Dragging her from her carriage was permitted? He was incredulous, but careful not to sound scornful.

‘Her husband is a traitor!’ cried Comminges, ‘she was being detained and would not cooperate. Her carriage is to be searched!’

So, perhaps there was no order from the Queen – Comminges was acting on his own. He glared at her and she stared back with cold defiance and tossed her head. There was a quick glance of approval from the Musketeer for her stubborn refusal to submit – her dress disordered and dragged to the ground– but not shrinking behind him in fear.

‘Then your actions should have been against her husband,’ he told Comminges sternly. ‘You have assaulted an innocent woman and her daughter – a noblewoman of impeccable reputation.

The crowd grumbled and Comminges and waved his arms at the assemblage shouting, ‘get away with you!’ The crowd stepped back but did not disperse.

‘Not so innocent or impeccable if you ask me,’ Comminges charged. He was furious as this interruption. He had expected to have her cowering at his feet and the daughter too.

‘No one is asking you,’ the Musketeer was harsh. ‘Leave now Comminges,’ he commanded. ‘You have gone too far. I will inform the Captain of this incident.’

‘By all means,’ sneered Comminges sliding his reptilian stare at Sophia. ‘Let him explain to the Queen how one of his men aided a traitor.’

‘Your Grace,’ he mocked her, ‘no doubt we will meet again,’ and looked pointedly at Suzanne. The Musketeer moved his hand to his sword menacingly, ‘that’s enough! Take your men and go!’

Comminges whirled and jerked his chin at his men. As they turned to leave, one of the guards punched the footman hard in the stomach, the man doubling over in pain. The other guard kicked the inert body of the coach driver. The four men strolled to their horses, mounted and with one last scornful look, they rode away.

The Musketeer turned immediately to the Duchess who was watching the guards ride away. She pushed her disheveled hair from her face. Now that the guard were gone, she seemed to sag - stunned by what had happened to her.

‘Madame,’ he was alarmed. She was very pale, and tears were visible on her cheeks. With an impatient gesture she wiped the tears away and pushed past him to go to the woman now standing on the side of the road.

‘Madame,’ he heard her say, ‘are you injured? Do you need assistance?’ The woman spoke softly and together the two women turned to the debris that had been her small stall. ‘I shall make restitution,’ assured the Duchess. ‘You will not suffer for this unfortunate incident.’ The poor woman was too overcome to do more than try an uncertain curtsy, but the Duchess took her hand smiling with encouragement. ‘I will send my servant to help you,’ she indicated the pile of debris that had once been her small stall. The Duchess turned and knelt by the injured coach driver.

‘Help me,’ she looked up at the Musketeer. Together they turned the man over gently and she brushed the dirt from his face.

‘Thomas,’ she was running her hands over his head looking for injuries, ‘can you hear me?’ A flask appeared at her shoulder – a man from the crowd handed it to her. ‘Wine Madame,’ he said.

She nodded her thanks and held the flask to the coachman’s lips. He opened his eyes groggily, ‘Madame – they were upon us so fast…are you alright? Mademoiselle? I am sorry Madame - we didn’t…’

She shushed him, ‘you were right to not fight back,’ she looked at the footman, ‘I did not give you leave to do otherwise.’ The two faithful servants looked anguished at their inability to defend their mistress.

‘Victor,’ she addressed the footman. ‘Take some coins to the woman. See if there is anything to be salvaged from the mess.’ The footman jumped to his feet eager to finally be useful to his mistress, ‘yes Madame!’

She looked from the fallen man to the Musketeer – who was staring at her with frank surprise and approval. She frowned slightly at him. She didn’t need his approval. But she was very glad at his presence. He held himself with confidence and was a handsome man – in the way that men are when they are both rough and competent.

‘I believe I know you,’ her extraordinary eyes searched his face and he realized he was holding his breath. They were kneeling on either side of the prostrate coachman and she was very close to him. Her blue eyes were a deep rich color with opalescent lights winking at him. Thick lashes shadowed her cheeks, and winged brows completed the frame. Wavy masses of chestnut hair were falling around her shoulders. He could see a tiny rapid pulse in her long slender neck, and the few scattered freckles along her perfect nose. No – not exactly perfect as there was the smallest bump - at some time she had broken her nose and he wondered at the accident that had caused it and what it would feel like under his finger. There was the faintest tremble in her rose-tinted lips. He looked at her and his heart contracted – what he saw in her beautiful eyes was gratitude – and vulnerability. She needed him.

He felt a curious warmth flowing through him, the air crisp and sweet, sounds both clear and far away. She seemed to be waiting for him to tell her what to do next. He extended his hand to her and closed his fingers around hers. They stood.

‘Your Grace,’ he said, ‘I am Fabian Marchal.’ She nodded remembering him and gave him an ironic smile. ‘Neither of us could have expected to meet again like this,’ she waved her hand at the carriage, the street and crowd. She looked down at her once beautiful silk dress – now torn and dirty. She was making a joke and he thought it both endearing and remarkable - she was trying to compose herself.

He remembered the day he and de Thierry went to her house – how she upbraided de Thierry and ignored him with haughty aristocratic demeanor. This woman could not have been more different. She was tending to an injured bystander and her servants, acknowledging help from him and recovering herself to be gracious to him. Her hands were still shaking.

‘Your Grace, I am sorry for this humiliation,’ he said with formality. ‘I will inform my ...

‘I am not humiliated.’ She corrected him with a firm voice and a steady gaze. ‘His actions speak for him and those who ordered him - not me. I will not allow my daughter to think otherwise.’

He almost grinned at her with pride and admiration at her tenacious refusal to be cowed by a despicable dog like Comminges. What a woman he thought. He managed a small restrained smile and said, ‘yes Madame. I will get your man onto the bench and drive the carriage to your home.’  
He held her hand as she stepped into the carriage and before he could shut the door, she turned to him. Her blue eyes were luminous with restrained tears, ‘thank you,’ she whispered and gently pulled the door closed.

>  
He turned the carriage to pass though the wide gated entrance and down the long drive to the house. The wide double doors opened, and several people hurried out and down the stairs. The news of the assault on the Duchess had already reached here.

He pulled the carriage to a smooth stop and set the brake. A groom took charge of the horses, a Turkish looking man was already at the carriage door. He helped the Duchess step down and then the daughter. Marchal climbed down from the carriage bench.

A drumbeat of hooves sounded Grimaud’s arrival. He was riding hard down the drive followed by two men. Marchal recognized M de Vry and one of the German mercenaries. Grimaud reined his horse hard, dismounting as the horse skidded to a stop. He looked only at his wife as he strode with long purposeful strides toward the small crowd in front of his house. His eyes swept over her, taking in the torn and dirty dress, and her flushed face. Much more passed between them in the seconds it took for him to reach her. He took her face between his hands, ‘Sophia?’ he asked softly. She simply nodded and he held her for a moment and turned to his daughter.

‘Go with your maid,’ he said gently, ‘I will be with you shortly.’ He put his arm around the girl and walked her to the servant. As she passed him, she hesitated, ‘thank you M,’ she murmured. He bowed to her and then her maid led her up the stairs and she disappeared into the house.

Grimaud turned to Marchal, ‘your role in this?’ he spoke quietly, but Marchal sensed the danger that throbbed beneath his calm appearance. Before he could answer, the Duchess spoke, ‘M Marchal intervened on our behalf. Indeed, M Marchal saved us from whatever it was the man intended to do with us.’ She looked at him as she spoke to Grimaud, ‘I am grateful for him.’ He could not take his eyes away from her.

Lucien Grimaud looked thoughtfully at Marchal, ‘you will allow me to thank you and ask a few questions?’ Marchal nodded and followed Lucien into the house.

>  
‘That was how I came upon them,’ explained Marchal. ‘The carriage was stopped, and he was pulling her out.’ Lucien was leaning against his desk, arms folded over his chest listening attentively.

‘She was resisting?’ Marchal shook his head. ‘She had no opportunity to comply. He dragged her from the carriage.’ Lucien’s jaw tightened and his hands clenched into fists. He would rip the man’s head from his shoulders.

As though reading his mind, Marchal said, ‘if I may…if you retaliate against him – you risk being arrested. You must know this already.’

‘And you think that risk concerns me?’ Lucien walked to a side table and poured wine, not looking at Marchal, his voice dangerously low. There was a palpable sense of barely controlled fury swirling around the man, his face hardened into fearful lines. Marchal took the glass from him. They sat together in silence that seemed oddly companionable. It was not that long ago that he knew Grimaud in a different world, although he never had reason to fear him.

‘Perhaps not you – but what about your wife?’ Marchal realized he may have overstepped and hastened to add, ‘your daughter?’ Lucien regarded him steadily, ‘so I am to let this go?’ Marchal shrugged and then shook his head.

‘I would feel the same,’ Marchal admitted. ‘But you know…’ he spoke carefully, he had no wish to insult Grimaud, ‘you are not a man who can challenge him.’

‘How do I maintain my fearful notoriety if I let a man – any man - terrorize my daughter and drag my wife into the street?’ Grimaud asked with cutting irony.

‘He’s not just any man Lucien,’ pointed out Marchal, ‘he is a Queen’s Guard. It makes a difference.’

‘Sophia says the same,’ muttered Grimaud absently, staring into the fire. Marchal watched him remembering as a boy, how mysterious, powerful, and remote Lucien Grimaud had seemed to him. Few knew him well. He knew men were loyal to him – the kind of loyalty that could not be bought or came from fear.

‘How did it get to this Lucien?’ Marchal asked suddenly, emboldened by a sense of ease with Grimaud. ‘You were never political. We haven’t seen much of you in the last few years.’ Marchal had been young when Lucien Grimaud married the Duchess de la Croix, but it had caused a scandal that was felt even in the Court of Miracles. In the years following he was rarely seen, and Flea did not talk about him.

Grimaud looked surprised at the question, ‘a woman asked a favor,’ he tossed back his wine and gave a short mirthless laugh, ‘to borrow my boat.’

‘And the grain?’ Marchal persisted curiously. Lucien smiled again, ‘another favor,’ he replied, ‘but a different woman.’

‘Maybe a few too many women,’ observed Marchal and they both laughed. ‘And the armory?’ asked Marchal, ‘yet another woman?’ Lucien narrowed his eyes at Marchal, ‘maybe it’s you who are the clever one…interesting interrogation technique. Do you think I will admit it to you for old times’ sake? And then you arrest me?’

Marchal flushed and shook his head. ‘I am not here to arrest you Lucien.’

‘My wife,’ Grimaud asked suddenly, his dark eyes fixed on Marchal, ‘how was she during the attack?’

How was she? Marchal hesitated – she was glorious he wanted to say. Gloriously defiant, and courageous. She did not weep or wail and in her elegant nobility, Comminges appeared as a mindless thug – of no importance and she humiliated him! She was beautiful in her dignity, her head held high and staring down her tormentor, her extraordinary blue eyes blazing with… He looked at Grimaud who was watching him. Was there a glimmer of amusement?

Marchal cleared his throat, ‘she was very calm.’ He dropped his eyes, ‘I should be returning to the garrison.’

As he prepared to mount his horse, Lucien grasped him by the shoulders and kissed him on each cheek, ‘Fabian – I am in your debt. I trust you know what that means.’ Marchal nodded and said earnestly, ‘I will always protect her…,’ he stammered, ‘that is…your wife and your family.’

Grimaud tapped his finger against the pauldron, ‘In spite of this Fabian?’

‘No Lucien,’ countered Marchal, ‘because of it.’ They smiled at each other and Marchal rode away.

>  
‘I didn’t expect you would let me come here today,’ It was the afternoon of the same day. Suzanne was taking quick steps to keep up with her father’s long strides. She was carrying a bag hooked over her shoulder and a sketch portfolio. They were walking along the busy quay and she was dodging the working men who seemed to be moving aside for her father. It occurred to her that she should be walking behind him!

He stopped suddenly and looked about. ‘I think up there,’ he pointed toward the wharf. ‘If you stay here you may be bumped into the river!’ He started up the walkway and she hurried after him saying ‘but not in your office! I cannot see anyone from there.’ He grumbled at her, ‘it is safer there…’ She interrupted, ‘you said Yusuf or Martin would stay with me!’ They continued their animated negotiation until they came to a small shop about half way down the crowded street, fronted by a wide covered walkway.

‘Here!’ said her father. He turned to look at her, hands to his hips. She knew that stance – it was this or nothing. ‘Perfect!’ she said setting her things on a small table. There were two large wooden topped barrels set against the building. She looked at them doubtfully as a suitable place for her to sit and glanced at her father. He grinned at her, ‘Mother is not here to reprimand either of us,’ he declared and lifted her up to sit on one of the barrels. He perched on the second.

‘The view will be good from here,’ he remarked. He nodded his chin toward the end of the building. ‘There are your watchmen,’ he said. ‘Yusuf will bring you home. Be good and come when he says it is time. Mother will want to dine with you tonight.’

At the end of the wooden walkway, Yusuf was seated in a proper chair, frowning at a young lady sitting on a barrel, while Martin chuckled in amusement as Lucien lifted her up. Joseph was staring absently at her and at her rather shapely ankles, easily visible as sitting up so high raised her skirt enough for him to see…

A sudden cuff at the back of his head abruptly ended his wandering mind, ‘what was that for?’ he complained to Martin, rubbing the back of his head.

‘For what you were imagining,’ scolded the large mercenary, shaking a thick sausage of a finger in his face. Joseph grumbled sourly turning away and then surreptitiously looking back at the young lady. He thought she was very pretty.

‘You are staying?’ she was surprised. ‘I thought we might need to talk,’ her father stretched his legs out and hooked his fingers together behind his head watching the busy street traffic. She noticed how people acknowledged him as they passed by. He lounged back in the chair. ‘Mother told me the guard said things about me.’ He smiled at her, ‘Do you have questions?’

Quietly she sat and folded her hands together. She looked into her father’s steady eyes. ‘He said you were a traitor and that the Queen would arrest you and that….’ her voice trailed away at the rest. She couldn’t say the words – it was too horrible. He leaned forward and took her hands in his.

‘I stole grain from the royal stores to make bread for starving people – while the Queen was away during the rebellion. I am a traitor to her,’ he sighed ‘and for the people who had bread – I am not a traitor.’ He smiled a teasing smile, ‘but in the end, I am a traitor for what I did – because in the end - it is the Queen who decides.’ He spread his hands, ‘I am not saying she is wrong. I decided to do it and knew there might be consequences.’

‘Why has she not arrested you?’

‘Because I also took something else, and she wants it back and if she arrests me, she may not get it back.’

‘This sounds more like a game!’ she said disapprovingly. He was careful not to laugh, ‘yes- but it is not a good game my darling girl, and queens and kings do not like it. But,’ he hastened to add, ‘very soon, I’m going to give it all back to her, and then perhaps she will not want to arrest me.’

‘I’m glad to hear that Father,’ she said seriously. ‘And then I suggest you never provoke the Queen again!’

‘That is good advice daughter,’ he said equally seriously. ‘I do believe your mother has said the same to me. Now – we can discuss this more if you wish, but the light will soon fade. So - are you here to draw? Or to lecture your father?’ She smiled at him and lifted her portfolio.

>  
He watched her intently, his eyes narrowed and dark. She leaned forward in the chair and toweled water from her long hair flipping it back trying to run her fingers through it and reached for her comb. She had emerged from the bath pink from scrubbing herself vigorously. The washball was made specially for her and the scent of the flowers mixed with the soap drifted to him. She intended to rid herself of any trace of the man who had put his hands on her.

He looked down at his hands and squeezed them. He didn’t know if he was more furious at what had happened to her or at her insistence that he take no act of revenge. Every muscle and sinew tight and coiled, screaming for release. His desire to destroy smoldered and would flare to uncontrollable rage if…he stood abruptly and went to her, lifting her from the chair and settling her on his lap. He took the comb from her hand and started to untangle her long silky hair. They were silent, the only sound the fire’s crackle.

‘I must go out tonight,’ he said softly, working the comb gently through the tangles. ‘Alone?’ she asked quickly, keeping her head still to not pull her hair. She is not sure she trusts me he thought irritably. She has reason for that he told himself.

‘I am going to the Chevalier au cigne’ he said with what he hoped was a reassuring calm voice. ‘I received a message from Friquet. Madame de Fleury wants to talk to me.’

‘Do I hear correctly that you are leaving me to attend on a brothel keeper?’ she asked with feigned indignation complete with arched eyebrows. ‘How am I to understand that?’ She was teasing him, trying to cajole him into a better humor, fearing where his anger would lead him. He pulled her against him, tucking her head against his shoulder and wrapped both arms around her.

‘I swore to do nothing,’ he murmured. ‘I know you are frightened - I will not add to it.’ She felt the heat from the battle he was waging inside himself to control the punishing violence he wanted to inflict on those who had hurt her. She was close to losing him.

She placed her hand against his cheek, ‘please Lucien – do not leave me to walk this world without you. Nothing that was done today would compare with that torment for me.’

He tipped her back to look into her worried blue eyes, his stern face gentle with his love for her. He nodded his assurance and she nestled into his muscled strength. He looked over her head into the flames of the fire, his eyes darkening ominously, his face hardening into stony planes. He tightened his arms around her, closed his eyes and kissed her damp scented hair. He would do nothing – for now.


	74. At the Wharf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn more about M. de Thierry and he learns more about the murder of Cecille du Pouget.  
> A peculiar encounter and a lesson about looking and seeing what his hidden in plain sight.

_Come my Lucasia, since we see_  
_That Miracles Mens Faith do move,_  
_By wonder and by prodigy_  
_To the dull angry world let’s prove_  
_There’s a Religion in our Love._

_(Katherine Phillips, 1632-1664 Friendship’s Mystery, To My Dearest Lucasia)_

The story is more or less the same at every gate of the city. It is always reported with a great deal of embarrassment by some baffled guard, who was once a butcher, a fishmonger, or a carpenter. “I am a level-headed man, Monsieur!” they all begin, “worked hard all my life until I joined the people’s army. I swear, Monsieur, I never drink while on duty at the gate!”  De Thierry has learned that such resolute disclaimers are always followed by disjointed descriptions of the same black spectral carriage. It never crosses the gates but it comes close enough for the guards to see it. It appears only on moonless nights or when the mist from the river blankets the ground. Sometimes it is seen emerging from darkness like an angry fiend ready to attack only to vanish without a trace. Sometimes it appears as if it is carried by the mist. The guards call it “Death’s Carriage” now and fear it all the more since M. Tanquerrel, a guard at the St. Victor Gate was found dead at his post, the expression of terror frozen upon his face. That is de Thierry’s next destination after the Gate at St. Antoine.

“What if the poor man tried to stop that infernal carriage, and gazed upon the face of Death?” Dame Nanette (1) muses. She stands behind a large wooden kitchen table and punches the dough she has been preparing in a large bowl. It makes a dull sound, and sends a delicate fragrance in the air that mingles with the smell of stew boiling in the stone fireplace behind her. “Dear Lord Almighty!” she exclaims crossing herself in the air, her hands smeared with flour up to her elbows. “I should never have mentioned that unspeakable name or now my bread will not rise!”

De Thierry raises an impish eyebrow at Friquet’s grandmother, M. Broussel’s cook. He sits at the other side of the large wooden table, which is empty except for five freshly kneaded loaves of bread that are lined up already, and covered under a clean towel. He rarely visits this old friend although he knows he should visit more often. But she is a reminder of a life he left behind and does not care to remember. Still, she has been on his mind because of Friquet, who is involved not just with Grimaud but also with a murder that is not as simple as it first appeared to be. M. Broussel’s house is on the way to the St. Victor Gate, at the Rue Cocatrix, right behind the Notre Dame, a busy street every day but especially now, during Lent, as churchgoers and pilgrims flock to the great cathedral. De Thierry has been sitting here for some time, for his uniform is slightly sprinkled with flour as is his black hair. “Don’t you dare look at me like that!” Dame Nanette exclaims. She waves a menacing finger and he chuckles. “This is no laughing matter!” she insists. “Bread is God’s food, and should not be tainted by sinful words and thoughts, especially at this time of the year.”

“I should not be sitting in your kitchen then,” M. de Thierry teases her. “You have nothing to fear Nanette,” he adds “you are the best cook in Paris!”

“Ah, you little rascal!” the cook chortles shaking her head, “you have turned into such a flatterer! Like that honey-tongued friend of yours! What was his name…?” She sprinkles flour on the table and sets the dough on the wooden surface, patting it softly.

“Rato,” de Thierry whispers after a while, his demeanor changed, his gaze dimmed. She looks up from her work. “I should not have said that,” she remarks. “Forgive me love, I am a foolish old woman…”

De Thierry shrugs. “It has been many years…” He tries to appear unaffected.

“The priest says, that it is during this time, during Lent, that we must pray and remember the souls of our departed…” She stops her kneading and wipes her hands on her apron. 

“I don’t pray…” de Thierry retorts. He looks calm although his voice trembles slightly. He does not care to remember those who departed. They are too many. Besides, it is forgetting them that he finds difficult.

Dame Nanette walks to his side of the table and sits on the bench next to him. Her tone betrays concern. “I am sorry love,” she whispers. “I did not mean to upset you. Sometimes I speak before I think…”

“I am not upset, Nanette,” he assures her feigning a smile.

She feels encouraged. “I will never forget the first time you two came into Madame Geufrinne’s bringing a message from that blacksmith at the Rue St. Paul, the one who never paid and liked to beat his girls,” she says. “I will never forget that soft spoken little Galician scoundrel!  He marched in as if he owned the place. He had a compliment for every girl, even poor Claudine. Remember her? The one who got smallpox in the end, poor soul. Terrible death. How angry you looked that day trudging behind him! We placed bets among us that you were not his sister…”

“Let me guess,” de Thierry replies. He sounds tense and uneasy. “You won…”

“Of course, I did!” she chuckles. “You looked nothing like him, and you seemed so jealous, Pinchar!”

“Please don’t call me that Nanette!” he exclaims and springs to his feet. “Never call me that name! That person is dead.”

She sighs ignoring his anger, and stands up slowly. She moves to her side of the table and picks up her kneading. “If you say so. I still see her in you, but I can pretend I do not as I have pretended since the day I saw you again back in Paris, riding next to that tall blonde Musketeer. Now he is a sight for sore eyes.”

“I don’t even want to know what this means…” de Thierry scoffs, dismissing the comment peevishly. He stands kicking his boots impatiently, his hands at his hips.   

“It means,” Dame Nanette replies in a stern tone, “that it is unseemly! You, living in that place among all those men!” 

“They are honorable men!” de Thierry interjects exasperated.

“They are men! They are soldiers!” she insists, thrusting the dough on the table harder than necessary. “Take it from me, love. I have met them all. All the kinds of men that live out there in the world. The honorable ones are the worst.”

“They are the only family I have, Nanette.” De Thierry sounds apologetic.

“To you that may be true, love,” the cook replies, her tone soft now, almost tender. “What about them? What happens if you are discovered? Do you think you will be their family then, or an intruder who should never have been among them?”

It’s not that de Thierry has not thought about this. It concerns him more than he admits. When he finds himself wondering the same thing that Nanette now questions, he tells himself that it is the Musketeer oath that will ensure his safety. Perhaps? “We are bound by an oath,” he ventures tentatively lowering his eyes. “One for All, All for One…”

“That is an oath for men,” Dame Nanette shrugs. “It was never made for women. I worry about you, love,” she continues, “I worry about you going about fighting battles, and living in barracks with soldiers. Do you sleep at all? You look pale. Do they feed you in that Garrison? You are too thin!”

“They feed me fine!” de Thierry exclaims half-annoyed and half-amused. “Madame d’ Artagnan is very attentive to all of us!”

“Ah, that lady I trust more than anyone else!” the cook asserts with a smile. “Kind and generous! She gave poor people food and kept many hidden when that viper Comminges was trying to arrest them.” 

“See?” de Thierry remarks impishly. “It is not all that bad!”

“Not that bad, you say? I say it’s very bad!” she exclaims. “Do you think I haven’t heard about your latest accomplishments against the likes of Lucien Grimaud?”

Friquet, de Thierry thinks. Of course, he would have told his grandmother about the night of Grimaud’s attack. “Friquet should hold his tongue,” de Thierry cautions. “He should be careful too. That is what I came here to tell you. What is he doing getting involved with a man like Grimaud, Nanette? He always hangs around him, at the wharfs, in the street, at Flea’s. Tell Friquet he will end up in the Châtelet as an accomplice. Everyone wants to arrest Grimaud these days, and they probably will. He is a suspect for the murder of the actress from the Marais.”

“Nonsense!” Dame Nanette sneers, finishing the loaf and setting it next to the others, under the towel. “That poor girl was taken by the Devil in that infernal carriage! Like all the others!”

“What others?” de Thierry interjects. “There were others?”

“There are all sorts of rumors. I know about poor Alphonsine, Madame de Gohory’s maid, who arrived in Paris from Berry only to disappear. I know about her well, because the lady is here often visiting Madame Broussel after church. The girl has been gone a month now. Poor lady does not know how to tell the girl’s parents back at Berry. They are good Christian people, farmers in the lady’s estate for generations. Then there is the story about Rosina, de Fleury’s girl. You know the de Fleury house at the Rue Bondel, don’t you?” She wipes her hands and cleans the flour off the table. 

“Not really,” de Thierry replies. “There are many houses at the Rue Bondel. Nobody I know frequents them.”  

“Pfff !" Dame Nanette scoffs bringing a basket full of vegetables to the table. "Of course, they frequent them! You should open your eyes, love! Anyway, Madame de Fleury’s house is called Aux Belles Poules. It’s a decent place. Nothing like Madame Geufrinne’s. Girls don’t die of smallpox, and don’t get beaten like we were…” she grunts and begins chopping a head of cabbage. “Word is that one of the girls, Rosina, was found dead by the river.”

“How long ago was this?” de Thierry makes no effort to hide the excitement in his voice.

“I don’t know, love,” Dame Nanette shrugs. “It’s what I’ve heard. No one would have thought much of it also, if it were not for that poor girl from the Marais. Girls like Rosina go missing and are found dead all the time. Some say she was strangled, others say she got herself drunk and drowned, others say she did not die at all but escaped de Fleury’s clutches with a lover. Jehan who brings the fish said he heard from his uncle who has a boat, that Rosina was found at the wharfs by St. Victor Gate not too far from where the girl from the Marais was washed up, and that she wore a nice pearl necklace.  But then he said his uncle was not sure which of the two girls this was, and I am not surprised: his uncle Duval is drunk most hours of the day. He may have dreamed the whole thing…”

De Thierry reaches for his sword and hat on the bench by the table. “I think I should go to that wharf and find out for myself,” he declares. “I was planning to visit St. Victor Gate.” Dame Nanette looks up disappointed. “You will not stay for some supper then? Who will feed you real food now, eh? You are skin and bone! You will completely wither under that Musketeer uniform!”

De Thierry laughs and gives her a quick furtive kiss on her rosy plump cheek. “I promise to come back and eat everything you prepare for me, Nanette!”

“You are a little rascal!” she giggles. “I will hold you to that promise. Someone must feed you!”

De Thierry opens the kitchen door to the back of the house that leads to the street. “Tell Friquet to be careful. Tell him to keep away from Grimaud!” he warns.

*****

De Thierry rides across the bridge, past the Place Maubert, towards the wharfs. It is a peculiar afternoon: torrential rain under blinding sunshine. The rain lasts for a few minutes and leaves everything drenched. The cold breeze following the storm carries with it the fragrance of wet earth and fresh grass, and the light becomes ethereal and dispersed as if passing through stained glass, raindrops hanging from the tree branches like liquid, shimmering crystals. It was an afternoon just like this, de Thierry realizes, three years to this day, when he rode into Paris from St. Martin on de Rohan’s horse. The city had glowed in the distance, the air crisp after a sudden storm: everything washed clean, the unspeakable things that he had witnessed carried away by the rain. All he could see was the city immersed in the slanted glow of the afternoon sun. It occurred to him as they approached the city walls, that he had never seen Paris in the light of day before. He had known it only in darkness; only in the night. It felt different: genuine, promising, and hopeful. He stood tall on de Rohan’s horse, riding into the shimmering city, just like those Musketeers he had seen once, led by Captain de la Fére at Les Halles. This is who I will be, he told himself.

There is nothing new to learn at the St. Victor Gate. M. Tanquerrel was by all accounts a level-headed man. An old soldier who had fought both the Spanish and the English, with grown children and grandchildren. Everyone liked M. Tanquerrel it seems. Nothing extraordinary about him either: he drunk a little, gambled a little, and had grown rather corporeal in the last few years, the result of his wife’s excellent cooking. “There were no injuries, Monsieur,” remarks one of the guards. “We found him sitting at this chair, right here. The look on his face though, I will never forget…”

“It was pure terror, Monsieur!” another guard chimes in crossing himself. “Poor man, to be touched by the Devil…”

De Thierry is unconvinced. “Perhaps he fell ill suddenly and died a natural death,” he suggests.

“Oh no, Monsieur!” the guard interjects. “It was Death’s Carriage. I saw it with my own eyes as I was walking to the gate to replace poor M. Tanquerrel. It was outside the gate one moment and disappeared the next! I fear this place is cursed, Monsieur!” the guard bemoans. “I carry holy water with me now,” he adds. He pulls the silver chain that is hanging around his neck. It is attached to a small silver bottle carved with crosses filled with holy water.  

De Thierry remains unconvinced and skeptical, but decides to keep his opinions to himself, and pretends to accept the story he is told. As far as he knows, the carriage was seen at this gate only once, the night poor M. Tanquerrel was found dead, unlike other gates, especially St. Antoine, where it has been observed on several occasions by different guards. What is different about St. Antoine, he wonders as he walks outside the wall surveying the moat? He can see the Rue de Fossez in the distance. He has no doubt that is where the carriage came from, for he has no doubt that this is a real carriage driven by common mortals.

The wharfs beyond the Port de la Tournelle are just a few minutes away on horseback along the Rue de Fossez. He leaves his horse outside an inn, close to the gate and moves on foot. His plan is to ask the fishermen and boatmen about Rosina, the girl Nanette claims also washed up somewhere around this shore just like Cecille du Pouget. After a while he is more confused than enlightened. One thing is certain, Rosina, the girl from de Fleury’s house and Cecille du Pouget looked very much alike: both beautiful, young, fair-haired and blue-eyed. They were so similar that it is impossible for people to remember who was who, or, if only one or two girls were found dead here. 

He walks further along the docks, his head down, his hands crossed behind his back, his mind absorbed by the peculiar details of the murder they are trying to solve. He feels compelled to find answers, not only because of Bragelonne, who is falsely suspected, but also because on a Good Friday long ago, in a dark corridor of Bicêtre, the girl called Pinchar had threatened Cecille du Pouget with a very similar death. Pinchar died in a burning house at St. Martin but de Thierry still feels that he is responsible for Cecille du Pouget’s death; that he owes her to discover her killer. 

He looks up, and realizes that he has walked too far. The wharf is busy at this time in the afternoon: boats returning, crews unloading their last cargoes for the day, customs officers, notaries, and middlemen for the merchant guilds everywhere, arguing about prices and the quality of shipments. He finds himself into one such small pandemonium and pushes through the crowd climbing onto a wooden pier. It looks empty but for a few people seated among old barrels. He exhales relieved. He abhors crowds. In the distance, behind the horizon, the sun is beginning to set, the sky rupturing in hues of orange, rose, and red.  He remains there for a while, mesmerized by the spectacle. It is getting late, it occurs to him suddenly, and he should be returning to the Garrison.  

“Please, please, do not move!”

He turns. It is a girl who speaks.

“Oh no!” she exclaims. “Now you have spoiled everything!” She sits on top of an old barrel on the pier, dangling her feet playfully in the air, a large sketchbook on her lap.

He looks around rather astonished. “Are you speaking to me, Mademoiselle?” he inquires. She looks completely out of place in her pretty silk dress and her dainty shoes. This is not the kind of girl that should be at this place among sailors, fishermen, and merchants. Her skin is smooth and pale as befits a lady, her thick black curls perfectly arranged. Her hands are delicate despite the fact that they are smudged with charcoal and paint. 

“Yes!” she intones. She sounds disappointed. “What a shame! I thought I had you, just perfectly!”

He walks up to her perplexed. “I apologize, Mademoiselle, but I don’t understand…” She looks up smiling. “I was trying to make your likeness. I hope you are not offended…”

Is he? Should he be? Probably. But there is something in the girl’s smiling blue eyes that feels familiar, as if he has known her all his life, although he knows he has just met her. She must be his age or a little younger. “No, but…goodness, why would you?” he chuckles. 

“You look like a Botticelli angel!” she exclaims with excitement.

He gasps and begins to laugh. “I have been called many things but never a Botticelli angel!” he remarks.

“You know who that is?” she inquires with astonishment. “I apologize,” she adds immediately, “but I assumed…”

“Musketeers are not scholars indeed, Mademoiselle,” he replies, “no need to apologize. I just happen to know who that is but little else.” Madame Ninon had a book of sketches from the great paintings in Florence and Rome. Her brother had brought it when he came to St. Martin together with books of verses, and maps, the map of Constantinople among them. They are all gone now, burned to ashes.

The girl expects him to boast about some trip to Florence or the visit of some Roman dignitary at court that he attended. She has met enough young men his age to know they all like to boast about such things even when they know very little. But he doesn’t. He lowers his eyes instead and remains silent. “I hope I didn’t make you sad…” she ventures leaning towards him eagerly. 

“Oh no! Not at all!” he hurries to retort. She is a keen observer, he realizes. “I am just not an angel!” He shrugs and they both laugh. There is something about her laughter that he finds familiar but he cannot understand why. “Could I see my likeness perhaps?” he asks with genuine curiosity. She grimaces impishly: “I am afraid, I do not like showing my unfinished drawings…” 

It’s not that M. de Thierry has avoided speaking to girls his age since he became a Musketeer, but he prefers to remain as distant as possible. He is afraid he will be found out the moment he opens his mouth to speak to them. He trusts that the Musketeer uniform renders him remote and unapproachable, and he feels safe that way. He has never let his guard down until this moment. Her answer makes him check himself immediately. What are you doing, he tells himself? “I understand, Mademoiselle” he says bowing politely, his tone suddenly serious. “I apologize.”

“Oh no! no! I did not mean it that way!” she intones with warmth. “Wait! Would you like to see my failed effort at capturing this glorious sunset?” she proposes with an inviting smile.

He is curious, he cannot deny it. How could anyone capture that sunset? Despite his better judgement, he walks closer and leans against an old barrel next to hers. “Here!” she says turning the page of her sketchbook. “What do you think having witnessed it yourself? Be honest!”

He suddenly realizes he knows who she is. He recognizes the delicate lines and the elegant confident hand. _“To Papa from Suzanne”_ that is how she signed all her other drawings, the ones in Lucien Grimaud’s study: the girls walking along the country road, the little boy with the large eyes, the frog who is _“Sammy’s new friend.”_ He would have liked to ask her about all this, if he could. About Rascal too, the goldfinch that her father _“misses so.”_ Are you Lucien Grimaud’s daughter, he would have liked to ask? What is that like?

“What do you think?” the girl insists. She sounds nervous with anticipation.  

“How did you see all these colors? How is it possible to distinguish them so clearly?” he blurts out and immediately regrets it: such a stupid thing to ask! If only he could have come up with some profound comment… Or perhaps remain silent. Yes, silent… that would have been the best. But it is too late… 

“You really want to know?” She sounds excited, and he nods with sincere curiosity. She has been trying to get Rayya to ask this question for years, but her sister finds all the talk about colors, light, and shadow, exceedingly boring. She thinks for a moment and points towards the river that flows beneath the pier. “What color would you say is the water, Monsieur?” she asks.

He is taken aback at first but then looks genuinely perplexed. He considers his answer looking at the river where she is pointing. “Ummmm…right now? Ummm… purple?” He grimaces with embarrassment. “I don’t know… I am sure this is not the right answer! What color would you say, Mademoiselle?” 

“Oh, no don’t feel at all embarrassed! There is no right answer, really!” she encourages him. He looks at her with disbelief. “No, truly!” she insists. “There is no right answer! It is purple, indeed. But look closer! Can you see how a gold lining glimmers on top of the ripples on the surface? And look there in the distance! As the sun disappears the river changes from purple to the hue of red wine, and then, further out, closer to the horizon to a deep dark blue…”  He can see them all, M. de Thierry realizes suddenly, all the colors and their hues as she describes them! “I had no idea…” he whispers enthralled.

“See?” she exclaims. “Nothing mysterious about it! It is all a matter of taking the time to look. That is how you can see what is hiding in plain sight!”

“You are absolutely right, Mademoiselle!” he says, turning towards her. That is when he notices them: two men standing behind the young lady at the other side of the pier. He knows them both well. One of them is the Turk, who let him and M. Marchal into Grimaud’s house. The other is the German mercenary, who was Grimaud’s accomplice when he attacked Bragelonne. M. de Thierry is absolutely certain now that he has been talking to Lucien Grimaud’s daughter. He is also certain that he should not have been talking to her with such familiarity. In fact, he should not have been talking to her at all. They were probably being observed all this time. He finds it surprising that neither of her escorts intervened but suddenly worries that she might find herself in trouble. Slowly, he distances himself without losing sight of the two men, who seem to carefully observe his every move. He notices that the Turk motions towards them on the pier. “Mademoiselle,” the man calls. “We must return. Your father awaits.” 

She sighs with disappointment. “I am coming Yusuf!” she replies jumping from the barrel. 

“I agree, Mademoiselle,” M. de Thierry says touching the brim of his hat and bowing politely. “You should return home. It is late. It was an honor and a pleasure to talk to you.”

“I am so sorry we cannot discover more colors, Monsieur!” she says softly, making a small curtsy.

De Thierry bows again and walks away, moving quickly along the crowded wharf. She stands for a moment watching him disappear. Yusuf steps next to her followed by Martin. “It is time to go back!” Yusuf declares, and helps her collect her sketchbook and her bag of colors and paints.

“That was a lovely sunset, Yusuf!” she says, smiling. “So many interesting portraits to sketch here!”

“This last Musketeer face is not worth the effort,” Yusuf remarks testily, and Martin chuckles echoing the sentiment. 

“Oh, Yusuf!” she chides him gently, taking the arm he offers to help her down from the pier, “how can you be so mean? That was one of the most fascinating faces I have ever encountered! Familiar too, although I am certain we have never met before!”  It is only now, as she looks back upon her encounter with the strange Musketeer, that Suzanne realizes that they were never introduced.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Dame Nanette is a character in Dumas’ “Twenty Years After.” She is Friquet’s grandmother and M. Broussel’s servant. Her character in this story is based on Dumas but has a completely different arc just like Friquet, whose arc here is different. Dumas places M. Broussel’s house at the Rue Cocatrix.


	75. Assault of Innocents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mystery of who murdered of Mlle Pouget deepens as more victims are revealed - will anyone care about these girls? Lucien seethes over the attack on his wife and daughter and is prevented from seeking revenge. He is spoiling for a fight - any fight

.

Sophia watched Lucien ride down the drive and through the gates. Even from a distance she could see the taut fury in his posture and did not need to see his face to know its dark anger. He had sworn he was not going to find Comminges. She turned away from the window crossing her arms over her stomach and shivered. The sick feeling in the pit of her stomach persisted and hours later her hands still trembled. Both fury and fear threatened to overwhelm her – she turned back to the room. Only a few candles were lit, the far corners of the room in shadows. Unsmiling ancestors captured in gilt edged frames looked down on her in gloomy disapproval. She had no idea what to do.

The door opened quietly, and Yusuf entered. He walked toward her and tugged one her hands free to lead her to the sofa next to the fireplace. He added wood to the fire and poured brandy, pressing the glass into her hand.

‘I’ll be sick if I drink this,’ she mumbled staring at the amber liquid. He lifted the glass a little to encourage her, ‘I don’t think so,’ he said in his soft voice. She took a sip, ‘should you have gone with him?’ she asked anxiously. Yusuf shook his head, ‘he will not go after the man. Not now,’ he added ominously. He sat in the chair opposite her.

‘He is very angry with me – but he cannot harm Comminges. They will arrest him immediately – it’s the excuse they are looking for…’ her voice caught in a sob and she dropped her head as tears coursed down her face. She swiped at her cheeks angrily, looking at Yusuf with a fierce expression, blue eyes blazing with rage.

‘I wanted to kill him!’ she cried furiously, ‘his dagger was so close and all I had to do was close my hand over it…’

‘They might have shot you,’ he interrupted quietly, ‘and perhaps Suzanne. The man is deranged.’

‘Yes, that is what Lucien thinks too.’ She took a deep breath trying to control her fury and pushed the hair back from her forehead. The fire, fortified with wood, suddenly flared hot and bright. She took another sip of the brandy. Its burning warmth was comforting.

‘So,’ Yusuf had a conspiratorial smile, ‘how shall we punish him?’ He gave her leave to imagine the worst for the man who had tried to harm her. She sniffed back her tears.

‘Roll him in a blanket and run over him with a hundred horses!’ He shook his head, ‘it would be over too quickly.’ She waved her hand exasperated, ‘What do you suggest?’

‘Fewer horses – more repetitions.’ His soft voice held a teasing tone and she gave a short mirthless laugh at his effort to calm her agitation. She stared into the glass she held.

‘Suzanne asked me tonight for permission to go with Duchess.’ Yusuf raised his brows and pursed his mouth – surprised at this development. She shrugged, ‘yes - after today, it is the last thing I expected from her. But she wants to learn more about Bicetre – where her sister lived. She wants to help the Duchess with her investigation.’

‘Is that wise?’ asked Yusuf. She heaved a deep sigh, ‘I don’t know what is wise anymore. I think only to protect her, and she thinks only to learn the truth – or as much of it as can ever be known.’

‘About her father too,’ commented Yusuf. ‘We knew these days would come – for all the children.’

‘Yes,’ she said closing her eyes, ‘and yet I am not ready. And now there is so much danger for him. I cannot lose him Yusuf. We cannot go through it again.’

‘He is not the same man as in those days,’ he smiled gently, ‘he adheres to the wisdom of the ancient poets.’ She lifted her worried eyes to his.

‘Your heart knows the way - run in that direction.’

>  
‘Have you met him before now?’ Madame Gourdan asked as they entered the tavern. Madame de Fleury paused just inside the door and did not answer her. She turned to the young girl behind her, walking between her and Madame Gourdan. She smiled at the girl and placed her fingers under her chin, ‘hold your head up dear,’ she advised surveying the girl critically head to toe, ‘remember to smile. Glances are fine, but no sustained eye contact. Understand?’ The girl nodded. She was pale with a slight tremble to her full lips, her dark eyes wide with vulnerable uncertainty. Madame de Fleury smiled – perfect.

The furnishings and atmosphere of the tavern near the Port St Paul suggested refinement suitable for well to do merchants and guilds men, wealthy privateers and a few noblemen. The tavern boasted an excellent chef and men of commerce often dined there while conducting business. The gaming tables were popular with Musketeers and Queen’s guard and others who preferred well-mannered games of chance – unlike what could erupt at Flea’s tavern over misplaced cards. It was a pleasant room, a large fireplace along the left wall fronted with an intricate brick pattern. Polished wooden tables were scattered along its length and within small alcoves set under tall windows to the right. Candles were burning on tables and on footed candelabras spaced along the wall. The walls were paneled with wood.

They entered the tavern to the curious looks of the men gathered there and nods of recognition. The two madams knew most of the patrons of this business because they were their patrons of their business as well.

The three women walked slowly along the length of the room the crowd of men parting slowly to let them pass. They paused to sit at a table in the center of the room where they could be viewed from all corners. A servant brought three glasses of wine. Madame de Fleury leaned toward the girl, ‘just small sips my dear,’ she smiled at her, ‘no gulping it down.’ The girl nodded nervously and took a dainty drink and licked her lips. She was unconsciously provocative. Mme Fleury gave her a bright smile – the girl was a natural.

‘I have not met him,’ replied Mme de Fleury to Mme Gourdan’s question. ‘Flea advised me to talk with him – about Rosina’s death.’ She sipped her wine, ‘Flea thought M Grimaud would be interested in some of the details.’

‘He is said to be a handsome man,’ said Mme Gourdan, ‘powerful,’ her eyes glittered, ‘and not easy to manage.’

Mme de Fleury surveyed the room with an experienced eye. Several men caught her gaze and gave an imperceptible nod which she acknowledged with a small smile. A guard from the Queen’s company tried to catch her attention but she ignored him. Guardsmen and Musketeers rarely had enough coin to interest her.

‘Pfft,’ Mme de Fleury was dismissive, ‘some men are handsome, a few men are powerful’ she said. ‘all men can be managed.’ Mme Gourdan laughed.

Mme de Fleury was the owner of Aux Belles Poules, a popular brothel located in a discrete house on the Rue Bondel. It was a carefully maintained house and attracted a clientele with discriminating tastes for exquisite women and sophisticated preferences in erotic specialties. It was famous for her ‘beautiful hens’ and for the purity and beauty of the innocents she purveyed.

‘I think that’s enough,’ Mme de Fleury said, ‘take her back.’ Mme Gourdan and the girl walked slowly to the door – to afford time for another look by the men watching them – and with a smile to the room, they exited the tavern.

Mme de Fleury moved to a polished table set within one of the alcoves under tall windows. Flea had advised her that M Grimaud looked with disfavor on the viewing and sale of a girl’s innocence. She did not care to antagonize M Grimaud at what she hoped would be the first of many meetings. M Grimaud was a discreet man. It was not known if he frequented a particular brothel or if he kept a mistress. It was rumored he was loyal to his wife – but Madame de Fleury doubted the truth of that. No man was completely loyal to his wife. All men could be tempted.

Flea had not described M Grimaud, but Mme de Fleury knew the moment he arrived. As he navigated his way through the crowded room, she let out her breath slowly.

He was handsome, the angles and planes of his face assembled into a chiseled beauty rarely seen in a man. What was it she mused, about men with such beauty that caused a cold and forbidding countenance? He was tall with long dark hair and powerfully built in the chest and shoulders. There was a coiled intensity swirling about him, but he did not use his size and strength to barge through the room but waited politely for others to pass. He was well known in this establishment and several patrons stood to extend a hand in greeting and exchange a brief conversation. He nodded in response to those who acknowledged him, but did not demand, in word or look, the obeisance he certainly could command. He smiled with courtesy at women – all women. Men were Mme Fleury business and she saw in an instant that this was a man who knew himself and his appeal to women. If a woman was not careful, she could unexpectedly find herself on her backside with that big beautiful body between her legs. What a pity she thought, if the rumor of M Grimaud’s loyalty to his wife proved to be true.

As Lucien walked through the tavern a man at the serving bar wearing a Musketeer pauldron turned to watch him. Lucien ignored him and glanced at the inn keeper. The man nodded and pulled a bottle from under the counter. He motioned for the servant.

Lucien approached the table where Mme de Fleury waited for him. He knew the brothel owned by Mme de Fleury. He knew its location, its plush furnishings and gaming rooms. He knew the details of the second floor, the soft beds and scented linens, the special rooms and the implements arrayed on the wall for individual preferences.

Madame de Fleury was unaware that Lucien knew these details about her house. She did not know he owned the building in which she kept her ‘beautiful hens.’

‘Madame de Fleury,’ he had a deep mellifluous voice that seemed to flow around her. She extended her hand and his strong fingers closed around hers gently. His hand was dry and surprisingly warm. He made a small bow. Mme de Fleury looked up as the servant appeared with a new flask of wine and a glass for him. He looked expectantly at her. She cleared her throat to speak.

‘It concerns a young woman of my house,’ Mme de Fleury spoke carefully. M Grimaud’s watchful eyes were sweeping the room. He watched the Musketeer engage several men in brief conversation and then turn to lean against the serving bar. The man looked toward him.

M Grimaud’s gaze returned to her, waiting for her to speak. He did not smile encouragingly, as though to soften his forbidding countenance. Stern men did not discomfit her, and she prided herself on her instincts in knowing what would disarm and beguile even the most severe of men. She watched his large strong hands lift the flask, pour wine, bring the glass to his sculpted lips. She wondered how it would feel to have those large capable hands on her body – those lips against her skin…

Her eyes went from his mouth to his eyes. He was watching her with a faint glint of amusement in his beautiful eyes. He lowered the glass his eyes still locked on hers. ‘Please continue,’ he said. Mme de Fleury flushed and tried to collect her scattered thoughts.

‘It concerns a young woman who was involved in a transaction with a gentleman,’ she spoke in generalities, but Lucien knew what she meant. She had auctioned off the virginity of a young woman or perhaps still a girl – of an age where she should have still been under the protection of her father and not in a brothel with her tender and inexperienced body sold to the highest bidder.

He felt a flash of disgust. There were men who lusted for innocent girls and would pay handsomely to be able to boast of their conquest in plundering the tender bodies of young virgins. He was not stirred, nor did he take pleasure from a woman’s fear of him due to her inexperience. These girls were no older than his daughter.

Sophia had been an innocent, but that was different – she had always been meant only for him. She had been afraid too. He remembered how she trembled, her blue eyes wide with trust, her beautiful face open with love. A man had a responsibility and he had been careful to forego his own needs for pleasure to attend on hers – to make her want him enough to overcome her fear of the pain. It had been a shared experience of desire and pleasure. The sensual woman he awakened in his bed was known only to him.

He nodded to Mme de Fleury and waited for her to continue. ‘An agent made the offer and completed the transaction,’ she said, ‘the girl left to be taken to the gentleman. She did not return.’ She paused and looked down at her hands. Lucien was surprised by the emotion in her face. Whatever had happened with this innocent girl, the brothel keeper was not unmoved by her fate.

‘Her body was found the next day,’ she said sorrowfully. ‘By the river.’ She looked up at him, tears glistening in her worldly eyes, ‘very close to where the actress was found.’

Lucien breathed in and exhaled slowly. ‘How was she found?’ he asked. ‘was she drowned and washed up on the shore?’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘She had been strangled. She was…’ she groped for the right word to describe the image she saw in her mind, ‘she was arranged - her hands folded together – thus,’ she demonstrated placing her palms together over her chest.

‘She was dressed? Nothing missing?’ M Grimaud was now looking at her intently, his voice carefully controlled, but she could hear the tension in his voice.

The brothel owner nodded, ‘yes -she was dressed.’ She frowned as though trying to recall a memory, ‘her shoes were missing, perhaps they were lost in the water.’

‘You said she had been strangled and left by the river.’ Mme de Fleury nodded and shrugged. She couldn’t account for missing shoes nor did it seem significant.

‘By what conveyance did she go with her patron?’ he pushed hard for more details. ‘By horseback? Public coach? Did you see someone in the carriage? Could you describe him?’ Mme de Fleury shook her head.

‘A black carriage took her away.’

Lucien stared hard at Mme de Fleury, but his thoughts were elsewhere…and racing. There had been a murder in the same manner as the actress. The use of the agent for the auction was different, perhaps the gentleman didn’t want his preference for virginal girls known – or was he a man who might be disgraced or blackmailed? A public figure? An aristocrat? Somehow his instincts told him that this gentleman stayed in the shadows not because of risk of public embarrassment over a sexual depravity – but because he was a murderer. The girl’s death was foregone – the only unknown was whether he had violated her too.

‘Do you know the agent?’

‘No,’ said the brothel keeper. ‘I had never seen him before. He was not the usual type.’ She was remembering the large barrel-chested man with the carefully trimmed beard – he had been suitably dressed and had a beautiful hypnotic voice – but he scared her. She didn’t exactly know why.’

‘What was different about him? Describe him,’ ordered Lucien.

‘He was…’ she searched for the right word, ‘rougher than most of the procurers. He was dressed and spoke well enough, but he had a coarse manner. His associate was smaller and did not speak.’

‘Two men?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she answered a little flustered at her mistake. ‘He never said a word and I forgot about him.’

‘The girl?’ he probed further. ‘Were they rough with her?’ She shook her head, ‘no – they were actually quite solicitous. She seemed relieved and was very pleased by the necklace.’ Lucien looked at her sharply, ‘what necklace?’

‘A beautiful string of pearls.’

Lucien sat back, silent and for a moment he stared at nothing. No one would bother with a dead prostitute – even if she had only been a prostitute one time – her first time. There was something teasing his memory about these men, but he could not summon it forward. Another string of pearls. He rested his chin on his steepled fingers and pondered what to do with this information. The Musketeer was now sitting at a table not far away. He ignored him and addressed the woman with a stern voice.

‘Madame, I would like you to alert the houses known for these specialties to be aware of what these agents seek.’

‘I can try,’ the keeper of innocents spread her hands in a helpless gesture, ‘There is a certain demand….’ Her voice trailed away, she was sure he understood her meaning. He had no doubt it would not be enough to save another girl. The value of a girl’s innocence was too high to not risk her life.

‘If I learn of another missing girl, I will send a message to you immediately,’ she offered.

‘Thank you, Madame,’ he held his temper in check to reply with courtesy. She started to gather herself to leave and he watched her with a hooded expression.

‘There is one more matter I wish to discuss with you,’ he said. Mme de Fleury brightened with hopeful anticipation. Perhaps M Grimaud’s loyalty to his wife had in fact only been a rumor.

>  
He watched the brothel keeper sweep through the room, a few men pressing small pieces of paper into hands. She must have had a girl here earlier he thought grimly watching her collect the offers from men bidding on the right to take away her innocence however they pleased – forever.

He felt an angry restless disquiet. He looked around the room and several men looked his way but he made no effort to extend by look or voice an invitation to join him. He was not fit company for the well-mannered men here tonight. Several Queen’s guard sat at a gaming table, careful to avoid his roving eyes. He stared openly – perhaps they would get offended and offer a challenge. His blood quickened. If he couldn’t kill Comminges tonight, he could kill one or more of his men. But they affected interest solely in their cards and a low conversation among themselves. They did not look at him. He curled his lip in disgust and tossed back the remaining wine.

Instantly a servant appeared at his side, ‘another sir?’ he asked. Grimaud shook his head and abruptly stood up to leave shoving the chair back. He bumped into someone behind him who said calmly, ‘pardon me M.’

Lucien turned around to stare into the eyes of the Musketeer.


	76. Ambushed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of unexpected encounters: Which one will prove the most deadly?

**Author: Mordaunt**

 

 _Your eyes were full of charms_  
_Defeating my reason;_  
_But you still sing! Oh, such treason!_  
_Must we injure those who surrender?_  
_I see that my death is all you treasure;  
_ _Well ! I die ; but I die of pleasure._

 _(Paul Scarron, 1610-1660, Chanson :_ _C'estoit assés de vos yeux) (1)_

 

The carriage jolts and stops somewhere along the Rue St. Denis. She waits for it to move again but it does not. Impatiently, she knocks with her fist against the roof: “What is happening Antoine?”

“Busy morning, Madame,” the coachman replies from his box, “there is a carriage ahead unloading sacks of grain, and some have fallen in the middle of the street. We have to wait…”

“I will be late…” Madame de Chevreuse whispers to herself as she exhales, but there is nothing she can do. She rests her head back against the cushioned seat. She has arranged to be at the Notre Dame for mass before noon. It is supposed to look like a chance encounter with her niece, Mademoiselle Mancini (2). The Prime Minister thought it a good scheme…....

\----

_…....Madame de Chevreuse entered the salon as soon as de Renard had left her bedchamber, fastening her robe, and pulling her hair up hastily. This was not how she should be receiving the Prime Minister of France, who had come to visit her, an exile who should not have returned to Paris, his political enemy, and the woman who had conspired with de Beaufort to have him assassinated. Then again, she knew from instinct and experience that this was exactly how she should be receiving him: she was the daughter of the Duke de Montbazon, the head of the house of de Rohan, one of the most ancient families in France after all, and he was nothing but an old Musketeer elevated simply because he was the Queen’s lover._

_“Did I disturb you, Madame?” the Prime Minister inquired, his back turned against the blazing fireplace. He looked much more refined and elegant than she remembered him from his Musketeer days. Taller somehow. There was quiet grace and aloofness in his features, where once there was impish ruggedness. He had spurned her for Anne back then, when he was still called Aramis, and she did not take being scorned lightly._

_“Not at all, Monseigneur,” she replied quietly lowering her eyes.  She invited him to sit but he refused, so she sat in an armchair, her hands crossed on her lap like some demure blushing girl. It was all part of her scheme. If she were to gauge the man’s intentions then a provocative appearance would have to be combined with a contrite demeanor. “I am honored that you condescended…” she began._

_“Do not deceive yourself, Madame,” he interrupted her sternly, pacing towards the windows. Despite his effort at equanimity his voice betrayed anger. “The only reason I agreed to visit you is that I do not want you anywhere near the court.”  He meant Anne of course. He was fearful of her influence over Anne, a sign that there was still much leverage. She lowered her eyes planning her next step, while feigning humility. “Of course, Monseigneur,” she said, “it is understandable…”_

_“What are you doing in Paris?” he interrupted her again. “How dare you return, and show yourself in society? I can have you arrested…”_

_“What for, Monseigneur?” she interjected, assuming a coy, gentle tone. He kept his back turned, so he missed the flash of scorn in her clear blue eyes. “All those accusations against me were false. There was never any proof, if you recall. It was all slanderous gossip. I am the Queen’s best fried after all. It was all de Beaufort’s plot. The man accused everyone to save himself. My exile was self-inflicted to appease Your Grace, and for my beloved Anne, who could be compromised…”_

_“You are very good, Madame!” the Prime Minister scoffed. “I could almost believe you…”_

_“But it is true, Monseigneur,” she insisted, without raising her voice. “I did it all for my friend, whom I cherish more than my own life. I returned because I miss her so... Besides, why do you care about me? You got your man. De Beaufort will be your prisoner for life.” The move was bold, but she decided to attempt it. She knew of course, that de Beaufort had escaped. She had supported M. the Coadjutor’s plan to break him out of Vincennes with a substantial amount of money._

_The Prime Minister stopped pacing, and turned to look at her with disbelief. “You have returned for the love of Anne,” he sneered, “and not because you and your allies feel emboldened after de Beaufort’s escape? Don’t insult my intelligence, Madame pretending you do not know!” he exclaimed._

_Wrong move, she realized, but it might have worked with another man. She recalled that the Musketeer she knew as Aramis, despite his seeming smoothness and gentility, was too street smart and too much of a soldier for this kind of dissimulation. She raised her eyes and stared boldly right into his. “You are correct, Monseigneur,” she shrugged, standing up and moving towards him. “I do know about the Duke’s escape. Everyone who matters in Paris knows about it, so it is no surprise that I have heard. I returned because I miss my beloved friend. This is the only truth. No matter what you think of me, you know that in this I am truthful. I love no one more than I love Anne…”_

_He did not believe a single word, including her declarations of love for the Queen of France. On the other hand, he knew she was well connected. More than that, he knew that he needed her assistance, despite all his misgivings. “What is it that you really want, Madame?” It was time to put an end to her charade, he decided._

_She was taken aback by his bluntness. She had expected he would continue to parry in this game of dissimulation, as any other man in his elevated position should. “I want to return to court,” she replied mirroring his bluntness. She liked his game better: brusque and direct rather than evasive and oblique. It felt invigorating, bold, new._

_He crossed his hands behind his back assuming the old impish ruggedness in his gaze that she knew from the past. “This is much better,” he observed. “I may not be averse to the idea…”_

_“In exchange for…?” she intoned scornfully._

_“I am glad we come to it quickly, Madame,” he replied in the same tone. “In exchange for some precious advice that you shall impart to your beloved niece, Mademoiselle Marie Mancini.”_

_“Marie?” she was astonished. She had not anticipated this. “You want me to talk to Marie? Why on earth would Marie listen to anything I have to say?”_

_“Because she trusts you intimately, Madame,” he replied dismissively. “After all she tells you so in all her letters. So many letters, and so affectionate…” he scoffed._

_“You read Marie’s correspondence?” she could not hide the anger in her voice._

_“Naturally. Mademoiselle Mancini is currently closer to his Majesty than anyone, including his mother,” the Prime Minister remarked, his tone dry and austere. “His Majesty is adamant that she should be his wife, and the young lady seems to have grown comfortable with the idea, especially since it is encouraged by her beloved aunt, Madame de Chevreuse, whose advice…hmmm… how did she put it in her last letter to you?...oh yes… ‘whose advice sustains and guides her every action’ yes…I am certain that these were her very words!”_

_“You are very well informed, Monseigneur,” Madame de Chevreuse retorted without losing her composure, although a careful observer might have noticed a slight quiver in her voice. “His Majesty is indeed fortunate to have a Prime Minister, who protects him with such care. My dear Marie is too young, and she is in love. Since you have read her letters you know this is true…”_

_“It is also true, Madame, that she is a member of your family. How fortunate for your ambitions and your cause if your dear Marie were to marry the King of France!” Madame de Chevreuse tried to object, but he continued: “It is of course, impossible…”_

_“Why impossible?” she insisted peevishly._

_“Because people do not marry those they love, Madame, as you well know. Kings in particular. He is to marry elsewhere as befits his position, and the interests of France. Your niece is going to break her attachment with His Majesty immediately, and you will abandon all your personal and family aspirations to the throne of France. Instead, you will make your niece see reason.”_

_“And if I don’t?” she pushed, gazing at him under hooded eyes._

_“My men are outside this door. I will have you arrested immediately as M. de Beaufort’s accomplice. There is an empty cell at Vincennes, and now we know how to keep impetuous prisoners from flying over those walls,” he shrugged. “But why waste your precious life in that sordid place, Madame, when you can return to court? You may not become the aunt and confidante of the new Queen of France, but you can still be the beloved friend of Queen Anne, having rendered her a great service. Was not this what brought you back to Paris after all?”_

_She found it hard to suppress her rage. He threatened like a street bully. She assured herself that she was smarter. “What will my dear Mary gain?” she inquired, raising a sneering eyebrow. “What is your offer for her compliance, Monseigneur?”_

_“The gratitude of all of France!” he retorted, an equal sneer at the edge of his lips. “I would think this would be enough. But we can ensure Mademoiselle Mancini a good marriage.”_

_It was a dreadful bargain, she thought, and insulting, coming from a man raised from nothing, who should never have been close to the throne of France. Marie’s influence with Louis, the future King of France, was what Madame de Chevreuse had counted upon. On the other hand, she suddenly reckoned, who better to trust but yourself? Why put her faith in Marie at all?_

_“Marie and her sisters will be attending mass at the Notre Dame tomorrow before noon,” she replied, her tone inscrutable. “I can use this as an opportunity for a chance encounter, that will permit us to talk face to face. Unless you prefer we only correspond so that you can pay attention to our every word?” Alongside her words, her exceeding politeness and obsequious demeanor were meant as an insult. He ignored it all, and it angered her._

_“An excellent notion, Madame,” he replied his tone businesslike as he motioned towards the door. “Persuade your niece to break with His Majesty, and you can return to court vindicated with your name restored,” he said knocking on the door. Madame de Chevreuse’s servant appeared at the threshold followed by a Swiss Guard. “I am glad we had this talk, Madame,” he said. He bowed only barely, and she reciprocated without raising her eyes to look at him as he left the room….._

\----

“How long Antoine?” Madame de Chevreuse insists, irritated.  

“It looks as if it will take some time, Madame!” the coachman responds apologetically.

She folds her arms in front of her chest, and looks out the carriage window, trying to ignore her vexation. This is when she sees him, hurrying towards the Rue des Lombards. He is cloaked, his lowered hat hiding most of his face. She knows who he is. She can still feel the warmth of his skin against her fingers when she had touched his chest, his shirt unfastened and loose. He had just finished a fencing lesson with the King, good-old-Louis, who was irredeemably bad at it. “Can I play with your sword, Monsieur?” she had teased him, and all the ladies of the court giggled with giddiness. He had rebuffed her, trying to sound dull and disinterested, but she could see that he was not entirely indifferent. “De la Fére is not that kind of man,” Anne had cautioned, but what did Anne know back then about any kind of man, including her own husband? (3) 

How peculiar, Madame de Chevreuse thinks, to see him again, after just talking about him with that toothless vile cub, de Renard. What is de la Fére doing in Paris? If it is true that he was behind de Beaufort’s escape from Vincennes, then he is a hunted man. Anne probably wants his handsome head on a spike. It suddenly occurs to Madame de Chevreuse that Providence has granted her a precious and unexpected gift. Persuading Marie to break her relationship with Louis might open whatever little access to court that d’ Herblay is willing to allow, for he will certainly keep her at a safe distance. After all, she conspired to have him assassinated, and would try again, given the chance. Madame de Chevreuse abhors the influence d’ Herblay, a nobody, has over the fortunes of her family and over the French Queen. What if she offered Anne another and most unexpected service, however?

On a whim, she opens the carriage door and jumps onto the street. “Madame!” cries one of the two footmen riding at the back of the carriage. He motions to follow her but she stops him. “Wait here, Hubert!” she exclaims. “I will be back. After all this carriage is not going anywhere for a while.”

She follows the cloaked man from afar. He is not alone. He is walking with a younger companion, who is also cloaked, his hat also lowered concealing his features. Could this be his son? She knows exactly where they are going: Madame de Longueville’s safehouse at the Rue des Lombards.

\----

Raoul sets the glass of sweet wine on the table. He has no taste for it suddenly. The memory of Cecille handing him a glass of sweet wine the night of her death, for he is certain this happened on the night of her death, raises a knot in his stomach, as if the wine he is drinking now is pure poison. In vain, he forces himself to remember more of that night, but all he can see is her room and her smiling face as she offers him the filled glass.

“Is the wine not to your taste, Monsieur?” Madame Planchet inquires.

“It is excellent, Madame,” Raoul retorts attempting to dispel the image of his dead lover smiling from the other side of the grave. “As excellent as your baking!”

“Madame Planchet’s is the best bakery in Paris,” a woman’s voice echoes from the door. The baker’s wife turns, her plump face shining with surprise and joy. “Dear God!” she exclaims. “Madame! You have returned!” She rushes to the door, holding it open for a lady to step in.

Raoul stands up mesmerized. It is difficult not to be dazed by the lady’s breathtaking beauty. She looks very young although she must be older than his mother. There is something in the pallor of her complexion and the softness of her features that momentarily reminds Raoul of Mademoiselle de la Valliere. But that is where all similarities end. Behind the lady’s large blue eyes, shaded by long black eyelashes, there is worldliness of the kind Raoul has often encountered among the most jaded courtiers. He finds it banal, and not in the least attractive.

“Dearest Trüchen!” (4) The lady embraces the baker’s wife with much affinity. “I have only been in Paris for a few days. My carriage is stopped close by, and I thought I might stretch my legs a little while waiting. It occurred to me to come and see how you are!”

“Oh, Your Grace, you do us such an honor, remembering us after all this time!” the baker’s wife curtsies deeply, blushing to her ears.

“Of course, I remember you!” the lady intones moving into the little bakery, her exquisite silk gown and velvet cloak in stark opposition to the humble surroundings. Raoul is very much aware that despite her nonchalance, the lady has her eyes fixed on him. It makes him uncomfortable and uneasy. He wonders if his father may be in danger by this unexpected visitor. “I will always remember you, after what we have been through together, dear Trüchen,” the lady continues, “you and I and our loyal Monsieur Planchet! How is that dear man?”

“Strong and stubborn as a mule, Your Grace!” the baker’s wife chuckles. “Just as you knew him. He has not changed…”

The lady turns towards Raoul now for the first time. “You must forgive me, Monsieur,” she says, “for interrupting your conversation with my old friend, but I have not seen her for many years.”

He bows politely. “No need to apologize, Madame. I fear I am the intruder.”

The lady smiles a cryptic smile and it is unsettling. Should he introduce himself revealing his French name? He decides not to take that chance. “Permit me to introduce myself, Madame,” he says bowing formally. “I am Prince Andrea Morosini.”

She looks surprised, as if she expected a different name. Raoul is now convinced that she has not entered this place by chance. Her surprise lasts only for a moment however, because she collects herself immediately, proof Raoul thinks, that she is used to dissimulating. “Prince Morosini?” she intones with a curious smile. “A relative of Domenico, perhaps?”

“He is my uncle, Madame,” Raoul explains.

“Dear Domenico!” she exclaims. “He is an old friend! A family friend too. He is very close with my beloved father!” She pauses, as if to study Raoul’s reaction. Is she also considering if she should reveal her name, Raoul wonders? “I am Marie de Rohan,” she finally says, “but all my friends call me Madame de Chevreuse, and from this moment I shall consider you a friend, Monsieur,” she adds extending her delicate hand, which he kisses, “for you belong to a family that is very dear to me.” None of this makes Raoul feel more at ease.   

“I am truly honored, Madame,” he retorts. He can tell that she waits for him to reveal more about himself. Perhaps his reasons for being in Paris, or in this small bakery, which serves as a cover for a safehouse used by the Fronde. He has no doubt why she is here, of course, now that she introduced herself. He knows who she is. He knows about the so-called “cabale des imporantes,” the failed conspiracy led by de Beaufort to assassinate the Prime Minister. De Beaufort ended up a prisoner in the Vincennes, and she ended up in exile. De Beaufort has escaped now, assisted by his father and mother, and to a certain extent by himself, and lives in his uncle’s palace in Venice. It makes sense that Madame de Chevreuse, Beaufort’s primary accomplice would return to Paris, emboldened by the news. He must consider her an ally therefore, Raoul reckons, but something holds him back.

She smiles, lowering her eyes. “You are well versed in Parisian discourse, it seems to me, Monsieur,” she whispers. “You speak without saying what really matters, so I will be bold for both of us: I trust your uncle’s French guest in Venice is well?” Raoul wonders if he should respond, reciprocating the trust she shows. Rules of polite society demand it now. Still, his instinct tells him to reveal as little as possible. “Madame…” he ventures, but stops suddenly. A door slams somewhere above them, and footsteps echo down the old creaking staircase. His father appears at the door of the bakery, cloaked and holding his hat. He is frowning, his demeanor grave and somber. Whatever happened at that meeting, it did not go well. “We are leaving, Raoul,” Athos is about to say, but pauses, as if frozen where he stands.

It is him, Madame de Chevreuse congratulates herself. It is him! As grave and somber as she remembers him from his youth, and not much altered. His face has lost something of that youthful roundness she can see in his son. It is more chiseled, leaner. His gray eyes, hooded now, and frowning, are no longer shy. He used to lower them when he spoke to her, but now his gaze is bold, penetrating, exciting. “Madame…” he whispers utterly astonished.

She moves closer to him with a smile. “Comte de la Fére,” she declares. "What a fortunate coincidence! We meet again after all this time.”

“So, you have returned to Paris, Madame?” he observes trying to collect his thoughts.

“A bold move I was told,” she retorts softly. “But your presence here, despite all the dangers you face, proves that I am not as bold as I thought.” She stands a breath away now, her hand close enough to his hand to be able to reach it with the edges of her fingers. He used to move away when he was younger, but now he does not. She can feel the slight quivering of his skin as she touches him. He looks at her askance, although she detects a glimmer of curiosity and playfulness in his eyes. “I am glad to see you, Comte,” she whispers. “I hope to see you again.”

“What was that all about father?” Raoul inquires as they hurry back to the Garrison. “What happened in that house?” 

“Nothing of importance, Raoul,” Athos replies. He sounds and looks irritated in a way that Raoul has never seen before. “It was all a mistake,” he repeats.

\-------

Seated in her carriage, that is still stalled, Madame de Chevreuse picks up her writing table and composes a quick message. “Hubert!” she calls her footman, handing him the sealed envelope. “Take this to Luxembourg, to the house of the Comte de Wardes, immediately!” she orders.

It is a simple message. It says: 

> _Dearest cousin,_
> 
> _I must see you immediately. Expect a visit this afternoon._
> 
> _Your loving,_
> 
> _Marie_

\-------

It is already evening by the time M. de Rohan enters the “Chevalier du cigne,” the tavern at the Rue St. Paul, not too far from the river. He is not certain what he is looking for exactly. Madame Petit claimed that the coachman of the black carriage, a short, silent man, who looked like a foreigner, frequents the place. It seems an odd choice. The “Chevalier du cigne” is a rather tame establishment, refined in comparison to some of the other taverns by the river. A place for privateers, merchants visiting the city, and the occasional guard or Musketeer, who suddenly found himself with enough coin to afford the wine and the gaming tables. Then again, de Rohan reckons, if this coachman serves such a wealthy master as Madame Petit intimated, then he probably has enough money to socialize with people well above his rank.

The place is crowded, gaming tables teaming with players, the smell of wine and roasting meat mixed with perfumed bodies and the faint scent of tobacco. The bawds are here too, parading their girls. He recognizes a couple of them from the Rue Bondel, where the more expensive houses are: Madame Gourdan and Madame de Fleury among them. He has visited their houses over the years, although he is not as committed to this kind of entertainment as some of his men. It is fleeting, momentary excitement, followed by emptiness and a sense of sadness. He abhors that feeling. To pay some young woman forced to a profession of faking love is worse, it seems to him, than to never experience love at all.

He moves between the tables slowly, trying to discern a man that fits Madame Petit’s description, but the place is too full and the light hazy. “Will you join us, Lieutenant?” A few of his men are here, playing cards with a group of the Queen’s Guards. “Later perhaps!” he says greeting them all. He walks to the back, where M. le Nogines, the owner, fills a jug with wine from one of the large barrels, lined against the wall. “Good evening Jehan!” he exclaims. 

“Lieutenant!” the man retorts. “It has been a long time!”

“Indeed!” M. de Rohan says looking around carefully. “You have quite a crowd tonight!”

“Ah, yes! It has been like this since we added more gaming tables, and changed our wine merchant to a better one!” M. le Nogines, exclaims. He sets the jug on a tray and hands it to his younger son, who helps serving tables. “This goes to the table over there, Matthieu!” he orders the boy, pointing to a table, where a man sits with two women. His back is turned but M. de Rohan recognizes Madame de Fleury, a bawd from one of the houses at the Rue de Bondel.

“I see de Fleury is collecting bets again,” M. de Rohan observes dismissively. He finds the practice of auctioning off the maidenhead of the youngest prostitutes utterly despicable.

“Well, that is quite a deal she seems to be striking there, if she can get him to bet!” the tavern-owner replies. “Do you know who that man is?”

He looks somewhat familiar, de Rohan realizes, but he cannot tell at that distance. “The King of Paris himself,” M. le Nogines intimates with a wink, leaning towards de Rohan.

“Lucien Grimaud?” the Musketeer exclaims with some disbelief. “I had no idea the man liked this sort of thing.”

“He doesn’t as far as I know. But then again, people can always surprise you!” the tavern-owner chuckles with a shrug. “So, what brings you here tonight, Lieutenant?”

“I was meeting a friend here,” de Rohan says. “But I cannot seem to find him. Perhaps you may know him? He does not speak much, if at all. Looks foreign…”

“Never seen a man like that here, Lieutenant!” M. le Nogines hurries to answer, his voice slightly trembling. He is lying. “How about some of our best wine, Lieutenant? Some of the excellent new wine we have now! Galician!” he interjects. “It is on the house!” M. de Rohan is certain that the tavern-owner knows exactly who the silent man is. He can also tell that he is scared.

“Thank you!” he feigns surprise. “That is very generous of you!”

“Well, you do not visit us often, Lieutenant!” M. le Nogines retorts with a friendly smile. “Why don’t you find a table, and I will send the boy over to you!”

M. de Rohan chooses a table close to Lucien Grimaud’s. It is part coincidence, and part intentional. He finds it hard to believe the man is here betting money on some young girl, but if he is, then perhaps the rumors that he was the lover of the young actress from the Marais could be true.

“Her body was found the next day,” he hears Madame de Fleury say in the din of the tavern. “By the river, very close to where the actress was found.” This is no transaction. It has nothing to do with betting for a girl’s maidenhead, de Rohan realizes immediately. This is something altogether different. It is hard to follow the conversation but the gist is clear: another girl was found dead by the river, a prostitute this time. She was found wearing a pearl necklace, and a black carriage was involved. It is also clear that Lucien Grimaud is as interested in this crime as they are, and perhaps for the same reasons.

“Your wine, Lieutenant!” M. le Nogines’ son declares setting a tray on his table. “Matthieu,” de Rohan says, “tell me, have you seen a foreigner around here? He never speaks.” The boy shrugs but then pauses, as if he remembered something. “A short man, quite muscular, Lieutenant? Yes. I have seen him! He comes often but not at nights as busy as tonight.” 

“Does he come here alone?” M. de Rohan pushes.

“I think I saw him with another man recently. A well-dressed one. Very big man…” 

“Anything else you can remember, Matthieu?” de Rohan insists.

“No, Lieutenant…” the young boy retorts, and motions to leave but stops suddenly. “One thing!” he adds, turning back. “I am not sure about this, but I think the other man called the silent one Rouge.”

M. de Rohan sits back in his chair, considering this new information. Another similar murder. A black coach driven by a man called Rouge. A well-dressed accomplice. Could that be the wealthy patron of Filandre? It seems unlikely that a man so wealthy would frequent a tavern for merchants at the Rue St. Paul. Besides, why would Filandre introduce Cecille du Pouget to his wealthy patron? Why would he want to share his good fortune with another? Filandre did not strike him as the generous kind. Then, there is Lucien Grimaud, who sits a few tables away seemingly trying to get to the bottom of the same murder. What does he know that they don’t?

M. de Rohan had expected to find answers here, but all he has found is more questions. It occurs to him that if the man called Rouge does not come to the tavern when it is so crowded, then he is wasting his time waiting. He drinks his wine and stands up preparing to leave. He is not the only one. A man almost walks into him also on his way out: Lucien Grimaud stops raising his hands as if to indicate that nothing important happened.

“M. Grimaud,” de Rohan acknowledges him.

“I apologize, Monsieur,” the Grimaud replies, his tone dry and stern. “We have not been introduced however,” he adds. He sounds ready to take offense. It is not de Rohan’s intention to give offense at all, although he understands that the Musketeer pauldron does not sit well with the man. He decides that there is no reason to antagonize him, even if he provokes, as is his habit. If what M. de Rohan suspects is correct, having overheard Grimaud’s conversation with de Fleury, then in a strange way they are both on the same side. Lucien Grimaud has connections with places and people the Musketeers cannot even fathom. His help in solving this murder would be invaluable. “I am Lieutenant de Rohan, Monsieur Grimaud," he says bowing slightly. “I apologize if I gave any offense. It was not my intention. But you are quite a famous man these days.”

“Famous is not exactly how your comrades put it the other day when they came to my house…” Grimaud retorts, a provocation simmering in his gaze.

“It seems to me that fame, like many other qualities, is in the eyes of the beholder, Monsieur,” the Musketeer replies in a surprisingly affable manner. “I am certain that you and your men use many different adjectives to describe me and my comrades and none of them would be remotely to our liking. Even so, no one ever made verses about us in the streets of Paris until you came along…” 

“You owe me your newly-found fame then,” Grimaud interjects, with a faint smile. He appears somewhat surprised that his provocation is not reciprocated.

“Our infamy, rather, if you consider those verses. They do not make us look particularly heroic,” de Rohan retorts reciprocating the smile. He bows touching the brim of his hat. “Goodnight M. Grimaud,” he says politely.

\-----

The night is dark when M. de Rohan steps out of the “Chevalier du cigne”: no moon and a starless sky, dimmed by clouds gathering in the distance. He welcomes the chill air after the stuffiness of the tavern. He walks towards the stalls to get his horse, but immediately realizes he is not alone. Four men, emerge out of the darkness. Thieves he thinks at first, but they look well-armed for thieves. He carefully uncocks his pistols, prepared to defend himself, but a noise makes him turn. Three more silent and armed men are approaching from the back, also ready to attack.

Ambushed!  he thinks. 

 

\---

NOTES

(1) Paul Scarron (translation is mine)

 _C'estoit assés de vos yeux pleins de charmes_  
_Pour vaincre ma raison ;_  
_Mais vous chantez encor ! ô quelle trahison !_  
_Doit-on blesser ceux qui rendent les armes ?_  
_Je voy bien que ma mort est tout vostre desir ;_  
_He bien ! je meurs ; mais je meurs de plaisir._

(2) At this point the story takes some significant historical liberties. The reason is that because of the end of the BBC series at season 3, Aramis has replaced Cardinal Mazarin. There are two serious historical transgressions now in this story,as a result of the BBC series:

 **Major historical transgression 1** : **_The Mancini sisters were not related to Madame de Chevreuse_**. Cardinal Mazarin had five nieces, the so-called “Mancini sisters”: he brought them to France from Italy so that they could make advantageous marriages. The five Mancini sisters were: Laure (she married the Duc de Vendôme, older brother of the Duc de Beaufort), Olympe (she was involved in the Affair of the Poisons during the rule of Louis XIV), Hortanse (the beauty of the family, who became the lover of King Charles II), Marie (Anna Maria), and Marie Anne. 

Marie (Anna Maria) Mancini: although considered the least beautiful of the sisters, she captured the heart of the young Louis (Louis XIV). He loved her so much that he wanted to marry her. His love was idealistic and did not appear to have been consummated, but he insisted so much on this marriage that Cardinal Mazarin and Queen Anne had to send Marie to exile, and then married off Louis to his cousin, Maria Theresa of Spain. Marie married the Italian Prince Lorenzo Onofrio Colonna in 1661. She had three children with him but left him in 1672 and only returned to Italy after his death.

Since there is no Mazarin in this story, I decided to connect the Mancini sisters to the Duchess de Chevreuse, _with whom in reality they had no relation at all_. However, I want to keep the story of Louis’ love to Marie prior to his marriage and I want to keep the Mancini sisters in the story because of specific plotlines in later chapters.

 **Major Historical Transgression 2** : **_Madame de Chevreuse was NOT a cousin of de Wardes or in any way related to him_.**  

Despite these two historical transgressions, other parts of the story are **historically accurate** :

De Chevreuse was indeed involved in the “cabale des Importantes” alongside de Beaufort and she was exiled (Spain, England, Flanders). She returned to Paris in April of 1649. She was involved in the Fronde as an ally of de Gondi. In the story here however, she is far more scheming and ambiguous in her loyalties than in reality.

(3) This backstory for young Athos as a gentleman in the court of Louis XIII and his earliest encounter with Madame de Chevreuse can be found in “Past Forgotten, Past Remembered” (AO3.)

(4) Dumas, “The Vicomte de Bragelonne”: Planchet’s betrothed was called Trüchen and she was from Flanders.


	77. Pirate Lessons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A man alone on dark street surrounded by dangerous men whose intent is to kill him.  
> What did de Rohan get to close to that his death was ordered? By who?

Outside the tavern the street was dark and empty. Debris swirled inside sharp gusts of wind that rushed out from between narrow buildings. He looked down the street to see the Musketeer disappear into the dark shadows. The boy handed him the reins of his horse. He should go home – Sophia might still be awake and pacing while awaiting his return. He would stop at Flea’s first. He wanted to ask her about Mme de Fleury’s description of the men. He couldn’t shed the sense that he held a memory - but of what? Perhaps Flea would recognize the descriptions. Besides, he was too restless to return to the quiet elegance of his home. He felt like breaking something.

A sharp cry broke the silence – the sound of a man calling out in surprise and anger. Lucien stopped. Distant sounds of grunts and low cries, metal against metal – the unmistakable sounds of men fighting - coming from the direction the Musketeer had gone. He hesitated. What did he care if someone wanted to try and kill a Musketeer? He canted his head to listen. There were more than two men fighting. More than three. That hardly seemed fair. 

He turned around, strode down the street, instinctively pulling his sword and checking his dagger. The sounds grew louder, shuffling feet, clanging metal, grunts and low menacing laughter. He rounded the corner and dropped the reins.

The Musketeer had managed to get his back to a wall, the seven men arrayed against him in a semicircle. They were playing with him, no more than one or two men charging at him. His tunic was open, his shirt bloodied. Sweat beaded his face, but his eyes were steady on his attackers, anticipating where they would come at him. He did not look at the new arrival.

All the men had their backs to him. One chance for it he thought – pick the biggest one. That man was to his left. He quickened his pace and lifted his sword. But the man sensed his presence whirling to face him. Dammit! Swiftly he flipped his sword to his other hand and lunged to grab him by the collar yanking hard - jerking the man off his feet his head snapping back. He smashed his fist into his face and as the man went down, he slashed his neck with his blade. Blood spurted. 

‘That’s better,’ he shouted at the startled assailants, ‘what do you think Musketeer – time to stop playing with these fools?’ The Musketeer flashed a look in his direction and readied himself to receive a new assault.

The semicircle of men collapsed into chaos. He moved back toward the opposite building drawing four of the growling men toward him. He had no time to assess the Musketeer’s injury. The man would have to handle two.

‘It’s Grimaud,’ he heard one mutter. There was a slight hesitation as they moved to surround him. Brawny men with ugly faces drawn into sneering grimaces, daggers in their belts and gripping their rapiers with confidence. Pirate weapons. Why were pirates attacking a Musketeer?

‘Do we know each other friend?’ Lucien called out. ‘Well no matter - you die tonight anyway.’

‘What are you doing here Grimaud?’ growled the voice again.

‘Not getting the Davies, are you?’ taunted Grimaud. ‘A little late to be worrying about dying.’ They were not advancing quickly – giving him time to reconsider and leave. 

‘Who is your captain?’ demanded Grimaud. ‘Who ordered you to kill the Musketeer? There will be hell to pay for it.’

‘Walk away Grimaud,’ the man said again. ‘This is not your fight.’

‘Well its been a slow day for killing,’ drawled Lucien. ‘I think I’ll stay and practice on you picaroons.’

A low tittering sound of grim amusement rose from the three closest to him. The fourth man was falling back – fearful. Leave him for last. He looked at the other three. They shouted at him angrily slashing their rapiers menacingly through the air. He grinned at them and threw back his head.

A wild reckless evil madness exploded into a vicious bloodcurdling scream descending into a wicked foul laughter. The men recoiled – they knew that battle cry.

More evil laughter erupted, his heated blood surged and sang through his limbs and there was a deafening roar in his head. He shut down his mind and unleashed a killer’s instinct for a fight. He saw nothing and everything – and when the first man rushed him – he was ready. He dodged sideways drawing the thrust and crashed his sword hard against the rapier, the force of the impact vibrating up his arm to his shoulder. The man swore and staggered, but Lucien already had the man’s sword arm in a crushing grip jerking him close in a lover’s embrace so the blade from the second man plunged into his back and not Lucien’s chest. Lucien threw the body at him, the pirate pivoting to avoid it and Lucien drove his sword along the side of his neck blood spewing and splashing his face. The man’s eyes bulged in shock, he grabbed his neck and dropped to the ground making gurgling noises and blood flowing down his hands and arms. Now there were only two. But one was already upon him.

He registered the clattering sounds of horses’ hooves and different shouting voices. From the corner of his eyes he glimpsed a man fighting next the wounded Musketeer - Marchal. A figure was running towards him and a blade flashed to enter the fight. For a moment he couldn’t believe his eyes – de Thierry.

‘Ah, the clever one is back,’ he called as his sword slid off his assailant’s in a grinding noise. ‘So glad you are here!’ he was actually laughing, ‘it wouldn’t be much fun without you.’ 

‘Shut up Grimaud’ snarled the Musketeer. No time to think about what Grimaud was doing here – helping a Musketeer.

‘Just remember not to kill me!’ he called back to de Thierry. A shadow moved behind Grimaud. ‘Look out!’ cried de Thierry. A face moved into the dim moonlight. de Thierry gasped in shock.

For a moment sounds faded…de Thierry sucked in the acrid smell of smoke, the clamor of men fighting, children crying, and somewhere a woman was screaming…his limbs felt heavy. From a great distance he could hear de Rohan shouting at him.

‘Move your feet man!’ Grimaud’s voice suddenly boomed in command. Lucien lunged to parry the sword heading for the motionless man. What the hell! The Musketeer jerked into action pulling his pistol and firing into the shadows. de Thierry stared where the face had been - running footsteps and a malevolent cackle fading away – had he imagined it?

‘Dammit - move your arse Musketeer,’ Grimaud was shouting at him, ‘or should I stroll over and put my boot up your backside?’ his sword clashed noisily against the pirate’s blade. De Thierry whirled to get his sword up barely in time to parry a sword coming at him. He slashed his knife at the arm, drawing blood.

‘Finally!’ Grimaud’s voice was sarcastic. ‘Now kill these bastards!’ de Thierry bared his teeth – he didn’t take orders from this man!

Grimaud moved to angle himself toward the shadows that had spooked the Musketeer. Whatever might emerge from that dark place would find him first. He kept the Musketeer in his sight – the pirate was leading the man in all directions. He was deflecting the pirate thrusts with swift parries – but not taking charge of the fight. Stalled.

‘What do you think we’re doing out here?' Lucien roared. ‘We’re not fencing with the King’s dancing masters sliding around on his ballroom floor! Move in soldier!’

‘Shut up Grimaud!’ de Thierry managed to spit out at him.

‘They fight close quarters! He’s tiring you keeping you back there. Stop thinking! Use what you got man!’ de Thierry clenched his teeth - dammit to hell! Would the man never shut up!

The pirate in front of him was reaching for his dagger. Lucien narrowed his eyes – think I’m distracted friend? Time to end this bastard. He pivoted to dodge the sudden thrust to close in and use that dagger. He smashed his elbow into the pirate’s nose crushing bone and cartilage. The pirate roared as pain erupted, blood spurted but experience was his master too and instinctively he turned in Grimaud’s direction driving the dagger toward him. He was a second too late and hair too far away. Lucien leaned back as the blade whispered against his tunic and drove his dagger into the man’s gut. He dropped like a stone. Grimaud whirled to the Musketeer.

‘You are faster! Get inside! You are supposed to be the slippery one!’ de Thierry threw a furious glance in his direction and slashed at the pirate driving him back growling angrily.

‘Get around him! Stab him in the back – you do remember how to that!’ de Thierry clenched his teeth in fury and in one quick motion he saw the pirate’s rapier lift, he slid under it burying his dagger in the man’s chest and fell to his knees gasping for breath.

‘Well that works too,’ came Grimaud’s amused voice from behind him. ‘No nobility points, but you can fight like a pirate Musketeer.’ de Thierry didn’t move. He wasn’t sure his legs would support him. Grimaud grasped him by the arm and dragged him to his feet. De Thierry angrily jerked his arm away.

‘Go check your comrade,’ Lucien gave the Musketeer a small push toward Marchal and de Rohan. He was going to check the fallen men to dispatch any who were still alive. For some reason, he didn’t want the Musketeer to see him doing it. He watched de Thierry walk toward the other two Musketeers. He didn’t look entirely steady on his feet.

Lucien walked among the bodies using his booted foot to lift a head or poke at a man’s side. Only one man was still alive. He dropped to one knee.'

Who sent you?’ he asked quietly. ‘Someone was here – watching. Who was it?’

The man was dying, his chest rising and falling with short rasping breaths. He was trying to focus his eyes on Lucien.

‘Go to hell,’ he muttered.

‘All in good time,’ replied Grimaud. ‘Who sent you?’

‘You shouldn’t have been here,’ the man coughed, blood dribbling from his lips. 

‘And yet, here I am,’ sighed Lucien. ‘Answer me – who sent you?’ The man rolled his head side to side. Lucien shook his head and drew his dagger.

‘Time for you to meet your Creator’ he placed his dagger against the man’s throat, ‘see what He will make of you.’ 

He drew the knife casually across the man’s throat. A thin red seam appeared, blood seeping down the man’s neck. He coughed again and then his unfocused eyes were staring upward toward the heavens.

de Rohan sagged against the wall, blood dripping down his arm and fingers to pool on the ground. With effort he lifted his arm to stop the flow, leaning over and breathing hard. Sweat had darkened his blond hair and streaked his face and neck. Marchal lowered him gently to the ground.

‘Let me look,’ he said. de Thierry knelt next to de Rohan. He was very pale. Marchal pushed de Rohan’s tunic from his shoulders and gently removed what was left of the torn and blood-stained shirt. His skin jumped reflexively as Marchal carefully probed the wound.

de Thierry’s looked anxiously at the bruises on de Rohan’s handsome face and then down to his naked torso, lifting a hand to run gentle fingertips over the smooth marbled chest and muscled abdomen to sooth him. Startled, he quickly looked away and dropped his hand. A warm flush rushed through him.

Rohan leaned his head against the wall behind him eyes closed. ‘It’s not too bad,’ he whispered to de Thierry.

‘Mme D’Artagnan will fix you up in no time,’ said Marchal, ‘we….’ he broke off as he saw Grimaud striding toward them. He still carried his sword and blood streaked his clothes, arms and face. His shirt was sweat soaked, his dark hair slicked back.

Grimaud hunkered down in front of de Rohan, his dark eyes assessing the wound. He took de Rohan’s chin in his hand turning his head side to side to examine the bruising. He looked into de Rohan’s pain filled eyes.

‘How many of me do you see?’ he asked. De Rohan snorted, ‘thankfully, only one.’ Grimaud chuckled and patted his cheek. ‘I think you will live Musketeer.’ He stood and turned to de Thierry.

‘What did you see,’ Grimaud demanded. He wasn’t asking a question. He towered over the smaller man, his eyes sparking with anger. de Thierry glared back and was suddenly aware of something else flickering in those dark eyes. de Thierry sucked in his breath - shocked. Concern.

‘Nothing!’ de Thierry retorted collecting himself. 

‘Wrong answer,’ charged Grimaud, He had a grim look and his hooded eyes were fixed on de Thierry. He stepped closer, ‘you saw something! Enough to make you freeze – what was it? A face? Someone you recognized? What?’ he commanded the Musketeer to answer him.

‘I saw nothing,’ de Thierry cried angrily, ‘I do not answer to you!’ Marchal put a restraining hand on Lucien’s shoulder and shook his head. ‘Enough Lucien, this is not the time.’ 

No one moved. Grimaud kept staring at de Thierry and then stepped back with a disgusted snort. He looked down at de Rohan who was watching the scene with a painful expression.

With an angry shake of his head Lucien turned and strode to his horse sheathing his sword. He swung up into the saddle, lifted the reins. The horse started briskly down the street.

What are you doing here anyway?’ de Thierry called after him.

‘Hell if I know!’ came his reply and he disappeared into the shadows.


	78. Secrets That Kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> About powerful secrets...  
> About deadly secrets...  
> About life changing choices...

**Author: Mordaunt**

 

_Celles qui vont au bois_  
_C'est la mère et la fille_  
_La mère va chantant  
_ _Et la fille soupire_

_\- « Qu'avez-vous à soupirer  
_ _Ma fille, Marguerite » ?_

_\- « J'ai bien grande ire en moi  
_ _Et n'ose vous le dire »_

_(La Blanche Biche, Medieval Ballad) (1)_

 

The liveried messenger walks into the Garrison courtyard. It is long after sunset…

“From His Majesty,” the messenger says bowing deeply to Raoul. 

Raoul breaks the royal seal and reads,

   

> _Beloved Friend,_
> 
> _It has been weeks since I had the pleasure of your precious company. I am deeply grieved by your absence. It pains me that you are the victim of slanderous accusations, and that your subtlety and sense of honor obliges you to remain away from court. I understand that you found shelter in the Musketeer Garrison. That you may soon find yourself bound by the indelible oath that connects these men in a brotherhood, which defies all obstacles, even death. I wonder why we could not be connected in a brotherhood as strong. Why should a King be less fortunate in friendship than his soldiers? I find myself utterly bereft of loyal and trustworthy friends, at a time most crucial, when I must sacrifice what is most precious to me, the woman I love, to the needs of my country. I want you to know that no slanderous accusations will ever change the love I have for you. That you are welcome in my court, dear brother._
> 
> _Return soon,_
> 
> _Louis_  
> 
>  

Raoul reads the letter over and over. How is such a letter to be answered but with compliance? He has many other invitations from the most desirable quarters, although none as desirable as this. De Guiche sends him the latest pamphlets almost daily: _“You are the talk of Paris,”_ he writes. The other invitations are easy to ignore, although it seems that ignoring them has added to his reputation rather than made him inconspicuous. But this letter… How can he not comply? Is compliance to a King real friendship? He knew little of real friendship before, but now he knows what it is all about. What it feels like. How can he comply and stay true to himself, to his father, and to his friends, true to his promise that he shall restore his honor? To return now will make him nothing but a King’s pawn, another ambitious courtier, whose word and good name mean nothing at all. He thinks of his sister, he thinks of Bianca. “This is your brother,” she will hear one day, “the man who always bowed to his King. Whose name and word meant nothing at all.”

He sinks in a chair despondent. He realizes suddenly that in the whirlwind his life has become he misses the one voice that has always grounded him in truth. He picks up his pen to write. It has been months:

 

> _Beloved Mother,_
> 
> _I am not sure how to begin this letter, or where t_ o  _begin. I remained silent all these months, and for my silence I devised many excuses: that a letter from me to you might endanger us all, that I was following your advice to become my own man, that I was living the court life of a Parisian. None of it is true. These were all excuses, that kept me from speaking to you, and from learning about my beautiful sister Bianca, whom I long to meet. These were excuses that I made up because I knew that even from the simplest letter you’d know I was dissimulating. Now I want to tell you everything. I feel I owe you the truth, as I owe it to myself to reflect upon what all that has happened signifies for my name, my honor, and my future._
> 
> _I mourn for Cecille’s death. I wish I could have prevented it. I wish she were alive even if it meant she would be someone else’s. She was exciting and unpredictable. Did I love her? I have asked myself this for some time, and I know that I did not. I am certain she did not either. We were both intoxicated with each other, and blind to everything around us._
> 
> _M. de Guiche assures me that this is what I must expect, that love is momentary blindness filled with excitement but little else. M. de Rohan, reticent though he remains on the matter is of a different opinion: that love is enduring even when it is not reciprocated. I am convinced that he speaks from experience, as does His Majesty, who agrees with M. de Rohan. My other friends, have refrained from voicing any opinions on the subject of love, although M. Marchal appears distracted lately. M. de Thierry, on the other hand remains quite aloof to such matters. He is in fact, quite aloof to most matters._
> 
> _Now I must ask your forgiveness, for I must pry into issues that pertain to my father, whom as you know, I have grown to admire and love. However, I find myself troubled by words and rumors that have reached me. Some from people I trust, like M. de Thierry. Some from entirely unreliable sources, like the notorious Lucien Grimaud, the so-called King of Paris. I understand from my father that you know about Grimaud’s attack against me and M. de Thierry. Lucien Grimaud declared it was revenge for Cecille, whose interests he feels he protects, although it is unclear to me how or why. I do not believe for a moment the rumors that the man was her lover. But Grimaud also declared that his attack was revenge for other injustices committed against him by my father._
> 
> _I want to speak of M. de Thierry first. He is a man whose aloofness and perversity initially I found disagreeable and unpleasant. I hold an entirely different opinion of him now.  I could not understand the reason for M. de Thierry’s animosity, until he revealed that he is convinced he too is my father’s son. I am not sure if this is true, and I admit that I refused to believe it at first. In the meantime, I got to know M. de Thierry well: he is loyal, honest, and fearless. His intervention against Lucien Grimaud was godsend and unwarranted. He is an unlikely brother, but I think of him as such, and I have no longer any doubt that he feels the same for me, whether his parentage is true or not. I hold no grudge against my father if M. de Thierry’s parentage is true, as I hold no grudge against my father for his liaison with that young woman, Sylvie. He was a soldier for a long time, and a soldier’s life can be solitary. If M. de Thierry is indeed my brother, I will proudly call him that. I am told M. de Thierry had a very hard life growing up as an orphan at Bic_ _être and in the streets, until he joined the Musketeers. He has declared he has no intention to speak to my father, and has asked me never to speak to him either. Still, I think you should know._
> 
> _I come to Lucien Grimaud next, for his words have troubled me exceedingly, beloved Mother, much more than discovering a brother I knew nothing about. I have tried to tell myself that Grimaud’s words mean nothing. M. de Thierry, who witnessed the man’s rage, has tried to convince me that it was a meaningless provocation. That I should not give any credence to the words of an enemy, who killed Captain de Treville. Still, I am troubled, because the man insisted that my father attempted to kill his wife, you beloved Mother, and not just once! How could this ever be? Why would this man even think of something as deprived? How dare he implicate you, as if he knows you intimately, and as if he protects your interests better than those of us, who truly love you? I have spoken to no one about this. Only M. de Thierry knows, since he witnessed the attack, and he urges me to think about it no more. But I cannot. Should I not seek an explanation? Should I not seek satisfaction for this slander?_
> 
> _I realize there is much in my father’s life that remains unknown to me. I understand that as a soldier and a Musketeer, he might have had liaisons that neither you nor I are aware of, not dissimilar to his liaison with Mademoiselle Sylvie, or to the woman I encountered this morning at a Fronde safehouse at the Rue des Lombards. She introduced herself as Madame de Chevreuse, and claimed to be an ally. I know of her from court gossip, as I am sure you do: daughter of the Duc de Montbazon and Her Majesty’s best friend, an exile from Paris because of her suspected association with de Beaufort’s murderous plot. She is undeniably impressive. However, I found her entirely unconvincing, obvious, and distastefully promiscuous. I would not trust her for a single moment.  My father seemed to know her intimately, and appeared intrigued, although he later dismissed the entire encounter as a mistake. Of course, I did not probe further but I would have liked to understand, no matter how disinterested I tried to appear.  I find myself surrounded by so many secrets for the first time in my life. It is difficult to discern clear ways around them._
> 
> _I want to assure you that although I am greatly perplexed and troubled in Paris, I am not unhappy. I have around me three loyal and devoted friends: M. de Rohan, M. de Thierry, and M. Marchal, and despite what happened at court, I would add M. de Guiche and even His Majesty among my friends._
> 
> _Until today it was the past that troubled me most. I finally had a course of action planned: remain at the Musketeer Garrison, away from court, and seek to restore my name and my honor. Since a few hours ago however, I find I have to make a choice that will determine how I will think of myself, and who I will become. His Majesty has extended a warm invitation back to court. Can I refuse it? Can I return to a place where I know I shall be thrown back into old habits that so far have cost the life of an innocent? Should I abandon any notion of redeeming myself and my name to satisfy my King?_
> 
> _I have so many questions, beloved Mother, but no answers. I miss your wise advice. I feel ashamed for trying to conceal the truth all these months. Now you know everything, and I plan to hide nothing from you again._
> 
> _I love you always. I long to embrace you and my sister._
> 
> _Raoul_

 

He is stirred from his desk by the neighing of horses and hurried voices below in the courtyard. “In my office immediately!” he hears Captain d’ Artagnan exclaim. “Are you injured, de Rohan?”

_De Rohan!_

Raoul springs from his seat, and dashes to the courtyard.

\-----

The Captain stands in front of his desk, his hands on de Rohan’s shoulders when Raoul enters the office. De Thierry and M. Marchal are right behind the Lieutenant. They all look battered but de Rohan clearly got the worst of it. His shirt is smeared with sweat and blood and his face is bruised, a deep red gash marking his left temple, close to his eye. “Do you need a surgeon?” the Captain sounds greatly distressed. “No, Captain,” de Rohan replies, although he looks as if he is about to faint.

“How many?” the Captain asks glaring at de Thierry, who looks overwhelmed, as if unable to speak.

“Seven, Captain” M. Marchal replies instead, taking the lead from his comrade. “Seven. I was there for the end of it. M. de Rohan was attacked first by all seven. Then Lucien stepped in…”

“Lucien!” the Captain gasps. “Lucien Grimaud?” 

“Yes, Captain,” M. de Rohan interjects, his voice barely audible. He leans against the back of a chair, exhausted.

“Good God, de Rohan!” Captain d’ Artagnan exclaims. “At least, sit down!” The Musketeer collapses on the chair, as if he was simply holding on until his Captain gave him permission. “I want you to see the surgeon immediately after this. This could be more serious than it looks,” the Captain orders, his voice tainted by anger and concern. “I don’t care if you think you are not injured!” he adds, replying to de Rohan’s silent objection.

“Lucien Grimaud assisted you against an attack?” Raoul interjects as he approaches, in utter disbelief. 

“He did,” M. de Rohan replies. He leans his head back, exhausted. “I am not sure why he intervened, but if it were not for him, I would have been killed,” de Rohan adds. He grimaces from the pain, keeping his hand on his chest, under his bleeding arm, where a bandage made of ripped cloth is steeped in blood. 

“Who attacked you?” Raoul hurries to ask, realizing that it is his Captain who should be asking these questions. He lowers his eyes with embarrassment, “I am sorry, Captain,” he whispers retreating.

M. de Rohan draws in a deep breath. “They looked like thieves at first,” he explains. “But they were very well armed… for thieves…” He closes his eyes, his breathing much labored.

“Lucien…” M. Marchal says, “I mean…Grimaud… he was quite certain they were brigands. Pirates, Captain!”

“He should know…” d’ Artagnan scoffs. “And he helped you, you say? Against his own men?”

“They were not his men, Captain,” M. de Thierry interjects. His voice sounds hoarse, Raoul notices, different. He looks different too: pale, as if drained of all his blood.

“And what were you doing, during all this M. de Thierry?” the Captain snarls. “Not sleeping, I hope! Do we have to enlist Lucien Grimaud in the Musketeers, if we expect to subdue a bunch of brigands these days?”

“I did my best, Captain,” M. de Thierry replies, his voice trailing off, as if he is out of breath. He lowers his eyes. The Captain is too harsh, even if de Thierry did not intervene on time, Raoul thinks. But then again, these are Musketeers, not school children.

“We will discuss this tomorrow!” the Captain declares, his anger thundering in the room. “I want every detail, M. Marchal! You seem to be the only one with his wits about him, who is able to answer any questions,” he adds, flashing an angry look at M. de Thierry, who remains silent and dejected. “M. de Rohan, I order you to see the surgeon. Immediately! M. Marchal and M. Bragelonne! Take him to the surgeon now and stay with him!”

 

_******   ******  ***** ***** ******_  

_“Thank you M. Grimaud,” de Rohan said with whatever breath he had left. He extended his hand._

_“Permit me not to take your hand, Lieutenant,” Grimaud grinned impishly, despite the exhaustion. “I will have to rethink my entire life, if I do that!”_

_“Well, I thank you anyway,” de Rohan chuckled with some difficulty, the cut under his arm bleeding profusely._

_“You are welcome!” Grimaud retorted grabbing the reins of his horse, and jumping onto the saddle. “As long as this does not make us friends or something like that. Fabien!” he called to M. Marchal, who approached, sword in hand, having secured that all their attackers were indeed dead, “make sure I do not become an unsung hero for the Musketeers, will you?”_

_M. de Thierry lingered behind, in the darkness. He knew whom he saw: the shadow of a man, whose name he knew well. Rouge. How could this be? As if in a dream, the barrel of a firing pistol flashed before M. de Thierry’s eyes. “Rato!” a girl’s scream echoed from another life. M. de Thierry closed his eyes trying to dispel the painful memory of his friend’s death. “Pull yourself together, fool” M. de Thierry berated himself but it did nothing to stop his racing mind. A strange cloud, oppressive and menacing enveloped him, all contained in the memory of this one name: Rouge._

_“Is everything clear, de Thierry?” M. Marchal’s voice stirred him from the strange trance. “Yes, M. Marchal,” he replied, although he had no idea if this was true. In fact, he had a feeling it was not. He had fired at Rouge but missed, after all. He had never missed a shot this close before…_

_The feeling of impending danger accompanied M. de Thierry all the way to the Garrison. He could not remember how he reached it; how he led his horse along the correct streets from the wharfs to the Garrison. He suddenly realized they were in the courtyard, all three of them, M. de Rohan and M. Marchal riding a few paces ahead. It was his Captain’s voice, this time calling de Rohan’s name, that stirred him._

_“Wake up!” M. de Thierry urged himself._

_He struggled to concentrate. He found it impossible to understand what everyone was talking about in the Captain’s office. Bragelonne was suddenly there but M. de Thierry could not tell how or why. All he could hear was a strange buzzing in his ears, as if he could sense his own blood throbbing in his veins. He could feel his throat tightening._

_He was glad they were dismissed. The Captain was clearly incensed by his inaction but M. de Thierry did not care suddenly. He was just glad they were dismissed. He trudged into his room. The minute he locked the door, his legs gave away and he collapsed onto the floor. Piercing pain spread from his back to his chest, and to his arms. He had felt this same pain before, but never like this. In the past, he could always think it away and then dismiss it, but now his mind was clouded, unable to focus. He could feel his heart pounding as he struggled to breathe. I am dying, he thought, and the idea that he might be discovered once and for all, dead in his room, made his heart pound even harder. He closed his eyes. He was suffocating. He tore the old scarf from his neck, and tried to untie the straps that kept his real body masked under his uniform. He felt hot as if the air was burning his skin. Another image flashed before his eyes, despite the fact that they were not open:_

  

> _Rouge blocking the door with a pistol in his hand. “Run!” a woman’s voice yelled. M. de Thierry could see her clearly: Madame Ninon, pinned to the burning floor of her house, her clothes ripped, covered with blood, a man straddling over her, grinning with satisfaction as he violated her surrounded by flames and falling roof beams  In M. de Thierry’s mind the man’s grin grew larger, enveloping everything, sucking up the air, and revealing a set of simmering, gold teeth…_
> 
>  

_M. de Thierry did not die after all. The pain subsided as did the pounding of his heart. He could feel his chest slowly relaxing. He could finally breathe. When his racing mind could focus again, M. de Thierry realized he was crouched on the floor, his back against the wall, drenched in sweat. He was too exhausted to stand up. He closed his eyes, and felt as if he was sinking into a dense bottomless darkness. “You must stay awake,” he told himself, still struggling to form clear coherent thoughts. He had no idea how long he stayed crouched on that floor, but when he stopped drifting in and out of that terrifying dark abyss, he could hear the chirping of birds outside the window. It was early dawn. He managed to stand up and wash his face. He sat on his cot, holding his head into his hands. This had happened before, but not like this. Never like this. He had always dismissed these nightmares, accepted them as a regular part of his life. But now they attacked when he was no longer sleeping. What if this happened when he was not alone? What if someone else found out? He felt his heart beginning to pound again…_

_“M. de Thierry!” M. Marchal was outside his door. "It is time for our morning orders!”_

_He stood up, thankful for the interruption. When he walked out of his room, he was neatly dressed, poised and composed as if nothing at all had happened._

_“Are you well, de Thierry?” Raoul whispered, standing next to him at the courtyard besides the rest of the regiment. “Of course, Bragelonne!” he replied, his tone rigid and stern. “Why?”_

_“You look extremely pale,” Bragelonne replied with great concern._

_“Nonsense,” de Thierry rebuffed him, before they were both silenced by Captain d’ Artagnan, who was giving the orders for the day._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) This is a well-known French medieval ballad.
> 
> They go to the woods  
> A mother and a daughter  
> The mother sings  
> The daughter sighs
> 
> “What makes you sigh,  
> My daughter Marguerite?”
> 
> “I have a great anger in me,  
> But I dare not tell you.”


	79. Curious Friends

_What are you doing here anyway?’ de Thierry called after him.  
‘Hell if I know! _

____

After the fight in the street….

He kicked against the door to the tavern and it opened with a loud bang against the wall. He ducked his head to enter. It was crowded, every table filled, serving women shoving men aside men to deliver drinks and food and getting their bottoms pinched or bosoms groped for their efforts. Not being gently bred maidens lost in a devil’s playground, irritated women swung a tray to whack a leering man’s face or a hard clap to his ears or aimed even lower with a booted foot. Men ducked and grumbled but Flea was walking the room keeping her keen eye on the men drinking and gambling and maintaining order. Sparks could quickly ignite into a fight. Tonight, the mood was jolly – a man was playing a fiddle by the fire, another singing a bawdy song that had the audience laughing uproariously. Heads turned to see Lucien Grimaud stride into the room. The raucous din subsided. Music and singing faded…

He was not wearing a doublet, his shirt and face blood splattered and streaked with sweat and dirt. His dark eyes glittered dangerously as he swept his gaze over the assembled crowed. The atmosphere of jovial misconduct vanished into a dark malevolence that swirled before him and settled over the room. There was blood on the hilt of his sheathed sword. He was holding his dagger and his hands were bloody.

One man stood up and said a quiet order to the others. They set down their cards, glasses and tankards. They shifted the women off their laps and checked their weapons. They waited for orders.

‘Sir,’ the man said as Lucien stopped in front of him. ‘Is there more killin’ needed?’

‘Not tonight!’ Lucien declared slapping a hand on the man’s shoulder. He set one foot on a chair sliding the blood streaked dagger into his boot. 

‘Are they dead enough then?’ persisted his man, a murmur of unrest rumbling through the crowd. Men roused for a fight do not settle easily.

‘All the ones trying to kill me!’ Lucien roared with laughter and men shouted their approval, stomping their feet and thumping the tables with fists.  


Lucien looked toward the serving bar, ‘I need a drink! A round for the house!’ he bellowed, and a raucous cheer went up. 

Flea hurried to him, ‘good heavens – are you alright? He held up his arms to her, ‘nary a scratch!’ he boasted and wrapped a brawny arm around her shoulders turning her to the serving bar. ‘Bring a flask woman!’ he shouted at the servant.

‘Whose blood is this?’ Flea demanded waving her hand at his shirt and face.

‘The other fellows,’ he laughed, ‘didn’t turn out so well for them. Woman, I need a drink!’

‘You need some hot water first,’ she ordered and turned him toward the kitchen. He balked, ‘it’s not that bad,’ as she pushed against him, ‘you stink!’ she said firmly. ‘You cannot go home like this!’ He turned his head to holler, ‘a drink dammit!’

Flea was shoving him through the kitchen door, ‘bring a clean shirt,’ she called to the girl who carried a flask and was hurrying after them.  
Outside the kitchen door Friquet had readied two buckets of warm water. Lucien was removing his shirt as Flea climbed up on a barrel lifting one bucket and upended it over his head. He yelped as the water sluiced over him.

‘I’m not done,’ she ordered and poured the second bucket over him. ‘Enough’ he cried and grabbed the towel Friquet was holding. The boy was holding his sides with laughter at the scene. Grimaud scowled at him as he toweled himself dry, water flying in all directions as he shook his head like a wet pup. He rubbed the towel over his head and raked his fingers through his hair. He dropped the clean shirt over his head, tossing back the wine and winking at the girl who had been eyeing his naked chest. She blushed furiously and Flea pushed her toward the kitchen. ‘Back to work,’ she ordered. Lucien looked at Flea.

‘I’m hungry,’ he declared. ‘For certain you are,’ she muttered, ‘big dumb oaf of a man! Get inside with you!’ He gave her a rakish grin and kissed her cheek.

Martin slid into the chair opposite him, his twin brother Gunther next to him, ‘how many?’ they asked in unison.

‘Good thing you two weren’t there,’ observed Lucien drily, tearing into the plate of food, ‘or the Musketeer would have thought he got his head banged too hard and was seeing double.’

‘Musketeers?’ asked Flea. ‘You didn’t say anything about Musketeers.’

‘There were seven,’ Lucien replied to the mercenaries’ question. ‘Seven pirates.’ Martin raised his brows appreciatively, ‘they thought that was enough? And yet here you are.’

‘Wasn’t for me,’ said Lucien spearing a piece of fish, ‘it was for the Musketeer.’ 

‘Now you are defending Musketeers?’ Flea gaped at him incredulous. He swallowed a bite of food and looked amused. He waved the empty flask at the serving girl.

‘I don’t believe this,’ Flea said flatly. A new flask arrived. He didn’t bother to pour it into a glass, drinking deeply from the flask. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘If they start singing a song about me, I’ll go back and kill every one of them,’ he laughed.

‘What are these pirates doing in Paris?’ Martin asked the obvious question. The same question that Lucien had been asking himself ever since he rounded the corner and saw the Musketeer pinned to the wall. Who had sent pirates to kill a Musketeer and why?

‘Still,’ said Martin stroking his beard thoughtfully, ‘seven men against two – even if one was you,’ he pointed to Grimaud, ‘you done some work tonight.’

‘Marchal showed up,’ Lucien replied. He grinned suddenly, ‘and the mite!’

Martin guffawed, ‘lucky you are not one those speared and lying in the dirt!’

‘I reminded him not to kill me,’ he chuckled and took a deep drink. He looked out at the crowd that had returned to their cards and women and singing. He saw de Thierry - staring into the shadows – fixed and frozen – with fear.

Martin was watching him with shrewd eyes, ‘what’s caught at your mind?’ Lucien dragged his gaze back to the mercenary and shrugged.

‘The mite saw something in the shadows – or someone.’ It spooked him,’ said Lucien. ‘Spooked him bad.’ Bad enough to lose track of the threat from the pirate and his rapier, instead firing his pistol wildly into the dark. He would have been killed if Lucien had not blocked the blade reaching for his gut.

He had seen men in that state before – a memory of horror suddenly flaring to life – a victim of bloody carnage and butchery or an act of atrocity against a loved one. Shock and panic sear the terror deep within the soul. Barriers collapse, the waking mind incapable of shielding itself from the terror, the scene erupts - as vivid in sight or smell or sound as the moment. Strong capable men are rendered helpless- engulfed in a living nightmare.

The young Musketeer would not or could not say the name of it. There would be remnants to deal with tonight – Grimaud doubted that the Musketeer was sleeping well if at all. No man would risk closing their eyes and entrust themselves to the dreams of slumber – not after seeing their nightmares come alive while awake.

He growled low and deep in his throat with a deep sense of anger and restless dissatisfaction – he had to know what had been there. Every instinct he had was sounding in alarm - danger was close and a connection to it ran through the young Musketeer.

Lucien speared another hunk of fish with his dagger and chewed it thoughtfully. He pointed the dagger at Martin, ‘I want to know who those men were and where they came from. They must eat somewhere they must sleep somewhere they must whore somewhere. They must have been seen.’

Martin shrugged, ‘some may think they are yours,’ he suggested.

‘Well they are not mine,’ retorted Lucien. ‘I want to know who sent them.’

His reach was far – and wide. No one was safe – not ministers or nobles or courtiers or wealthy burghers – he knew their private vices, secrets and betrayals. As high as he could reach was matched only by how far he could descend into the deepest underbelly of Paris – far into the treacherous maze of tunnels that ran under the city where rats and sin-filled souls competed to claim as home the dirt floors, cold perpetual darkness and stale air. The word would spread along the meanest streets and slums in Paris, where men, women and children huddled for warmth in doorways or alleyways or if they were lucky and had a coin - packed into dank rooms, no clean water or little food for days, poxy whores, murderous thieves and purveyors of depravities that could make the strongest man flinch. In this sordid world a pirate crew would be almost invisible and able to slink with impunity toward its unknown objective.

Flea chewed her lip worriedly. Lucien looked at her. ‘I feel like I know this crew. Like we know this crew.’ She frowned, ‘what would make them come here? It’s too dangerous.’

‘A prize,’ said Lucien. ‘A prize of great worth – or so they were promised.’  
>  


Old habits he thought as he came fully awake alert and tensed as though expecting trouble. But he was only in a spare bedroom, lying on a soft mattress with clean fragrant bed linens. He sank gratefully into the warm comfort as every muscle and bone in his body ached and protested any movement. Yusuf had pushed him to this room warning against waking his wife. He had been fairly drunk by the time he had banged on his front door and staggered into the house.

The bed sagged to his right and he slid his eyes in that direction. Sophia was kneeling on the bed next to him.

It must be morning – early morning - as she was still in her nightdress, one beautiful shoulder uncovered as the muslin slipped down her arm. Her dark wavy hair was falling about her face and down her back. Her blue eyes were large and luminous and a trifle…stormy. The full lips that he loved to tease apart with his tongue were pressed together tightly. Morning was his favorite time to make love to his desirable wife – when he awakened with her nestled in his arms, warm and sleepy – the thin muslin clinging to the curves of her hips, slender legs and the soft swells of her …

A sudden jab into his chest, ‘ow!’ he cried jerking his eyes open. She was scowling at him.

‘What happened?’ she asked with a worried tone. He frowned in confusion. What was she…the fight – he must have bruises on his face? Flea had said – you cannot go home like this!

‘Lucien,’ his wife was glaring at him. ‘Where were you? What are all these bruises?’

He suddenly yawned and pointed a finger at her face making a little circle, ’this,’ referring to her frowning expression, ‘is not very pretty so early in the morning,’ She slapped his hand away and tapped his chest again with a hard finger.

‘Comminges better be getting his breakfast this morning,’ she said with a serious tone.

‘Well if he isn’t, it has nothing to do with me,’ Lucien declared pulling up the covers and preparing to go back to sleep.

‘Get up! I must talk to you about Suzanne.’ She got off the bed drawing her drape around her as the servants entered with buckets of steaming water, followed by Yusuf carrying his shaving kit. Lucien groaned and sat up realizing he was naked under the sheet. He gathered it around him and swung his feet to the floor.

‘And I want to know about those bruises!’ she said with a firm voice used for their recalcitrant children.

What about Suzanne?’ he asked as he tested his legs for full upright position. Yusuf watched him with a critical expression. No one seemed happy with him this morning.

‘She wants to go with the Duchess on her investigation. She wants to go to Bicetre.’  
>  


‘Ridiculous!’ declared Lucien. ‘Absolutely not!’ He folded his arms over his chest and frowned at the two women sitting on the sofa. They gazed back at him with impassive expressions. Neither was nodding in agreement or looking acquiescent. He scowled at them.

‘There is a murderer of young women out there,’ he waved his hand toward the window to indicate the world beyond. ‘I am not letting you run around the countryside without an army.’

His daughter sat with hands folded in her lap, listening attentively. She looked as though she was considering every word, but he knew she was assembling arguments to demolish every concern he raised.

‘An excellent idea Father,’ she replied as though he had presented a plan and not delivered an objection. ‘Although the murderer is in the city,’ she pointed out. ‘We will be outside of the city. So perhaps an army is not completely necessary.’

Lucien opened his mouth to deliver a tirade. Suzanne spoke quickly, ‘Perhaps Martin’s men should accompany us. Or, as many as you think necessary for two women, M la Reynie, the coachman and two armed footmen.’ She smiled obediently to his authority on the assemblage of guards.

Lucien frowned again but paused. He looked at his wife. ‘You have no objections? Nothing to say about this venture?’

Sophia lifted a hand in a helpless gesture, ‘if they are well protected and stay in the great houses along the way…I can see no real difficulty. It’s not as though the city has been without its dangers.’ Lucien clenched a fist. He didn’t need reminding of what had been done to the two of them or that the man responsible was still walking the streets and breathing air.

Lucien moved to the sofa and sat next to his daughter taking her hand in his. ‘Mother and I know some facts. The orphanages are crowded places, there are too many children and conditions can be …harsh.’

‘I’m not afraid Father.’ He smiled at her, ‘I never thought you were afraid,’ he answered softly. ‘But it might be more than you are ready for now.’

‘How can I not be ready? How can I turn away from that which she could never hide?’ she covered his hand with hers, ‘she may yet be returned to us. We must never give up’ Sophia stood and walked to the window, Lucien’s eyes following her. The subtle shaking of her shoulders told him everything.

‘I will speak to the Duchess and M la Reynie. If there is no particular objection, I will agree,’ he glanced at Sophia. ‘Provided your mother agrees as well.’ Sophia wiped her eyes and turned around smiling at them.

‘Perhaps you will find something that will help us.’ Suzanne beamed – that was exactly what she wanted to do. Bring her sister home.  
>  


He found Yusuf in the workroom he shared with Sophia. There was a door opened to the rear of the house and the gardens that lay beyond. He could see neat rows of medicinal plants they tended and the greenhouse to the side of the yard. The day was fair, and a slight breeze carried the scents of the gardens coming into new life. Spring was almost in full bloom. Soldiers would soon be mustering to return to the battlefield. The time was short for him to remain in Paris.

Yusuf led him out the door and they settled on two benches facing each other under an arbor where tiny white flowers were beginning to show. The scent of jasmine was sweet.

Lucien folded his arms across his chest, his shirt straining over his arms. He scuffed his feet frowning slightly. Yusuf watched the silent man across from him wrestle with his thoughts. He could see the corded muscles in his neck and thick biceps flexing with impatience at this inactivity. He waited patiently. 

‘I don’t know why I am curious about him,’ he said sighing deeply. He didn’t need to elaborate. ‘Does he remind you of someone?’ If only that could explain it.

‘He spoke to Suzanne at the wharf,’ replied Yusuf. Lucien grimaced angrily, ‘you let the Musketeer approach her?’ Yusuf shrugged. ‘He is much in our lives. I am curious as to why.’ He smiled enigmatically. ‘He is no threat to her.’

‘Then he doesn’t know who she is,’ retorted Lucien. ‘He would be a threat to anyone associated with me – even my children.’

‘Mmm…’ Yusuf looked thoughtful. ‘Maybe, but in this case, I think not. I believe he knew who she was to you.’ Lucien frowned and started to object, ‘how could he…’ but Yusuf waved a hand gently at him and smiled.

‘He studied her drawings with great interest and the conversation was…’ he thought about the two young people talking and laughing together, ‘lively.’

Lucien looked angry, ‘he was not…’ but Yusuf held up a hand to stop him from getting riled over imaginary intentions. ‘No – he was not.’  
‘But I believe our young Musketeer is as curious about you – perhaps about all of us – as we are about him.’  
>  
She slipped inside the door of the library. The fire burned low, candles lit only on his desk. The room was mostly in shadows, slivers of moonlight showing through partially draw drapes. He was sitting with his back to the desk staring out the window behind him. The night sky was inky black, wispy clouds drifting over the moon graying its pearly light. She moved closer on silent feet, muffled in thick carpets. He was holding an opened letter in his hand resting in his lap. She could see the broken red seal.

He turned, slightly startled to see her. He tossed the letter to the desk and reached for her pulling her to his lap and tucking her against his chest and shoulder. He kissed her forehead and wrapped his arms around her.

‘Bad news?’ she asked. A deep sigh, ‘just news,’ he said, his deep voice rumbling in his chest.

‘Will you go to Constantinople?’

‘I think I must.’ She swallowed – he would be gone longer than they had anticipated. Perhaps that was best. He couldn’t be arrested if he wasn’t in the city – or the country. Perhaps the furor over him would die down – or go away all together.

‘It’s not yet decided,’ he said softly stroking her arm. She settled closer to him.

‘After the audience with the Queen, the Duchess and Suzanne will leave with la Reynie,’ he said. She nodded. ‘I want you to return to Royamount. Do not stay here.’ She sat up to look at him. ‘I cannot leave Paris while Suzanne is traveling with the Duchess. I must be here when they return.’

‘I will give instructions for the Duchess and Suzanne to be returned to Royamount. The Duchess will be tired after the trip and we can look after her.’ If she thought his presumption to assume responsibility for the Duchess’ welfare was odd – she did not say so.

‘And M la Reynie?’ she asked.

‘He may need to go farther - to Angers.’ She looked puzzled, ‘why would he…’ Lucien held up his hand, ‘it is the home for the Daughters of Charity. Certain records are kept there. We have permission from Mme de Marillac and Father de Paul.’

‘I don’t want you here alone Sophia. Comminges is a threat. The Queen may not have ordered his actions, but she has not reined him in. We do not know what the Queen will do when I leave – for all we know she might arrest you!’

‘That’s ridiculous!’ she said but she could see he was serious. ‘She will have no reason. Besides, I am not alone – you are sending four German mercenaries with me whenever I step from the door. ‘We might spark a war with Germany,’ she laughed.

He smiled, but persisted, ‘I would have you surrounded by all six, but I must send Gunther and Martin with the Duchess and Suzanne.’  
‘You will go home – after the palace - to Royamount.’

Royamount – her children were there. Fresh air, leagues of tree lined country roads to walk, verdant fields, casual dinners with friendly neighbors, music lessons with her daughters, turtles and toads to discover, and evenings reading books with Samy’s blond head leaning against her shoulder.  
Yes,’ she agreed, ‘home to Royamount.’  
>  


The courier had ridden hard from Paris changing horses frequently. He arrived in Marseille in the stillness of night a few hours before dawn. The woman was waiting for him in the small office near the port, a shaft of yellow light as she opened the door and stepped out into the dark night. Silently he dismounted and handed her the letter. He collected the reins and walked away, the clattering sound of hooves on cobblestones fading into the darkness.

The woman drew her cloak around her and hurried from the quay up a narrow street. Behind her the port was quiet, the only sound was water slapping against the wooden piers in rhythm with ocean currents. It was a cloudless night, but tall buildings crowded the street from both sides and little moonlight could illuminate the passageway. She glanced furtively behind her as she quickened her pace up the hilly street. She kept her hand over the pocket within her cloak to reassure herself that the letter was secure.

She came to low door set within the stone building, a short step leading down to it. With trembling fingers, she fumbled the key but managed to unlock the door, slipping inside and hastily shutting it. She turned the lock. She leaned her back against the door and pulled the letter from her pocket setting it on the table. She hung her cloak on a peg and pulled her chair to the fireplace, adding wood to the banked fire and watched it flare to life. She sat for a moment stretching out her arms to warm her cold trembling hands. She reached for the letter, carefully unfolded the parchment and read quickly. She drew in her breath in a sudden gasp. She refolded the letter and placed in back on the table. He would be back soon. He would not be pleased.

The Musketeer was alive. The man in Paris had sent men to kill him and yet he lived. The letter named the one who had come to the aid of the Musketeer – Lucien Grimaud.

He would be furious.

She stared into the fire squeezing her eyes shut to stop tears from falling. She could only hope her letter had reached Lucien. She had used the red seal – so he would know it was her. Would he remember? How they had once laughed at it – ‘it’s the color of your hair,’ he had said running his fingers through its mass, ‘like silky fire,’ he had murmured as he spread her hair across the pillow.

Would he come? After all these years – would he help her?


	80. The Claw's Pinch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The palace visit is here! Suzanne experiences the power and majesty of the court and Sophia receives a warning from old friends and a new enemy. The past rushes forward to bring new danger to Lucien – can she stop it? Can she save him?

The boy’s mouth dropped open in shock and unexpected pain. Crayfish were escaping - climbing over the sides of the bucket, scuttling away on the wooden table. One rebellious crustacean pinched his finger hard in its oversized claw. Suzanne could hear him cry out in surprise and pain - as though he were in front of her and not a figure in a painting.

They were in the opulent study of the First Minister in the Palais Royal. The First Minister had greeted them, ‘Your Grace,’ he bowed to the Duchess of Aiguillon and turned to the man behind him.

‘I believe you may know my secretary M Servien,’ he introduced a man with small eyes, a sharp nose and several chins. The Duchess inclined her head in a slight movement of recognition.

‘Your Grace,’ effused the secretary, ‘such a honor to see you.’ The Duchess of Aigullon sniffed - his bow was overly deep and lasted too long. As one of the many followers of Richelieu, she knew him M Servien well – and had never esteemed him. There was something sinister in those small eyes. She smiled but did not reply – a subtle display of noble disdain. The man flushed but the Minister had not noticed the exchange. He had turned to greet the Duchess de la Croix.

He took Sophia's hand in his and smiled, ‘I am pleased to see you,’ he said with sincerity. ‘Now introduce me to this charming young lady,’ and bowed to Suzanne.

They were sitting in chairs with delicately carved legs and rich silk upholstery. She hardly heard a word the Duchess was saying as her attention was drawn to the marvels of refined furnishings and soaring ceilings decorated with frescoes and elaborate plaster work. The First Minister noticed her looking toward the paintings and waved her to wander at her leisure.

She walked slowly around the perimeter of the room. It was magisterial with wood paneled walls, and colorful Oriental carpets. The fireplace filled most of one wall with an elaborate marbled front. One wall was lined with floor to ceiling bookcases filled with leather bound volumes and tall windows were framed with silk and velvet curtains. She turned to look back along the length of the room – it reflected a sensibility for art and beauty. It also intended to convey the immense wealth, authority and power of the First Minister.

She watched the small group assembled at the other end of the room. The Duchess was describing the requests of the Daughters of Charity to support their missions. Her mother sat quietly, hands folded demurely and looking serene and elegant in her beautiful silk gown. But, even at this distance Suzanne could see the tension in her clasped hands and stiffened posture. Her mother’s disquiet worried her, but what reassurance could she offer?

She turned back to the handsomely appointed room. Her father’s study had a beautiful Turkish carpet. When she was small Yusuf had sat on the carpet with her to explain the meaning of the symbols and figures. While her father worked, she had lain on that thick carpet in front of the fire examining maps and peppering him with questions–- did the silk road pass by their house? Was it only to carry silk? Was it made of silk? He would put down his quill to trace with his finger across the pages to show her the routes he took on land and sea.

Her father’s study was also filled with beautiful objects - treasures he collected during his travels. His study had floor to ceiling bookcases stuffed with books, maps, travel journals and their lesson books. Small parchments of her drawings were scattered around the shelves. She looked at the First Minister’s carefully organized books. There were no parchments drawings.

‘You seem fascinated by him,’ commented the First Minister, who had come to stand next to her, his hands clasped behind his back.

‘Yes, Your Grace,’ she answered, ‘it is unusual – the artist has captured a moment. The Minister canted his head thoughtfully at the painting. ‘What do you see?’ he was curious.

‘Well…’ she hesitated glancing quickly at him. He was a tall man, his dark hair swept back from a high noble forehead, lines worked into his lean face. She thought him somber, no doubt the result of many concerns that weighed against a lighter humor.

And then - he smiled, encouraging her opinion. There was true warmth in his rich brown eyes, the lines at their corners deepening – marking a time when he had smiled and laughed often. He studied the painting as though he had not seen it before, and now he waited patiently for her to answer his question. She took a deep breath.

‘There is a natural quality to the scene. He is sitting at a table where he has brought a bucket of crayfish – perhaps to his home for his supper. He is young - his shirt not buttoned properly and his hair uncombed. His skin is smooth, but with the barest beginning of a young man’s musculature, so he will soon leave childhood behind. He attempts to play with these creatures, and one has caught his finger in its claw. We feel sorry for his pain, but we are also charmed by his expression and his youthful disregard for consequences. That is what it means to be young - and a boy.’

‘You seem to know him well my lady,’ chuckled the First Minister. She laughed too, ‘I have a younger brother, Your Grace. I can see Samy doing the same.’

‘Lady Bianca studied for a time with Michelangelo.’

‘The artist is a woman?’ gasped Suzanne. ‘Michelangelo took a woman as a student?’ she asked, her aquamarine eyes wide with amazement – and possibility.

A servant entered the room and stood silently by the door. The Minister said, ‘the Queen will receive you now. ‘I will discuss your list of charities with Her Majesty. I believe she will be amenable to re-vitalizing the league of charities within the court.’

‘I am grateful Your Grace,’ answered the Duchess of Aiguillon. ‘Her Majesty’s support will encourage others as well.’

‘M Severin will escort you,’ said the Minister. They stood to leave. The Minister bowed to them and turned to Suzanne, ‘it was my pleasure to see you again Mlle.’ She looked surprised, ‘my apologies Your Grace, that I do not recall it,’ she glanced uncertainly at her mother. The Minister smiled, ‘you were but a baby in your mother’s arms.’

They were following the servant out the door when the Minister said, ‘A moment, Your Grace.’ Sophia hesitated - he was addressing her. He stood close to her speaking quietly, ‘you must convince your husband to return the guns – immediately. Her Majesty was patient with the raid on the royal granary, but he went too far with the arsenal. Leaving little piles of guns all over Paris and her bedchamber has not improved her disposition toward him.’

Sophia glanced up in open surprise. She had not known about piles of guns left anywhere. The Queen’s bedchamber? She bit down hard on her inside cheek to suppress a treasonous smile. How did he do these things?

‘He has provoked Her Majesty greatly and she is demanding his punishment. Treasonous actions cannot go unaddressed,’ the Minister delivered the warning in low tones. The threat was real.

Sophia clamped down again on her sore cheek. So that is why she had her guard abuse me? Drag me into the dirt on a public street? Permit them to leer at my daughter? She felt a flush of fury. It wasn't only Lucien committing acts of treason, men much closer to him were also guilty. She remained silent, taking his rebuke without expression of defense or defiance. 

She had wanted to know how much danger there was for him from the Queen’s displeasure. Now she knew.

She nodded and assembled what she hoped was a contrite expression. ‘Yes, Your Grace,’ she answered an obedient voice. ‘I…,’ she stumbled over her words, ‘I am grateful for your counsel.’ She rolled her lips together and looked into his face. At one time, she thought Aramis affable and easy to talk to about difficult matters. He had sympathy for her love for Lucien.

He covered her hands with his. ‘He may still face the Queen’s justice.’ He squeezed her hands gently, ‘for all you hold dear Sophia, you must convince him to return what he has taken. And then - he should leave Paris.’

>

The page led them down a long gallery. M Severin fell into step next to Sophia. ‘Your Grace, I would speak with you.’ He had a high thin voice that squeaked with nervousness. She was startled at his impertinence and frowned.

‘We met once, many years ago.’ She shrugged - she had no memory of him. He watched the Duchess and Suzanne who were walking a few paces ahead.

‘I was Captain Treville’s lawyer and executor of his will.’ Involuntarily her heart contracted. Treville. She looked at M Severin coldly, ‘I do not remember meeting you M.’ She did not welcome this conversation.

‘I kept many of his papers. I have a letter Madame, that may interest you,’ he said with a sly look. ‘Captain Treville gave it to me years ago for safekeeping.’ Unease began to seep through her – why was this man telling her this?

‘It contains information on your husband. He gave it to me for safekeeping in case he needed it.’ She stumbled slightly from the shock. Good heavens – what had Treville done? What crimes had he accused Lucien of doing? Could these be used against him now?

Cold fear raced down her spine, ‘what do you want?’ she hissed at him. M Severin’s chins jiggled in triumph, ‘please do not worry Madame- I intend nothing dishonorable - only money. I will contact you with details.’

They were arriving at the hall where the Queen would receive them. He leaned closer to her, ‘I do hope you enjoy your audience with Her Majesty. Think of what it is she does not yet know about your husband.’ He bowed unctuously to them and walked away.

Sophia stood motionless, her heart racing. Treville had written a letter. How had he intended to use it? Another effort to turn her away from Lucien or get him arrested and executed? That would have solved Treville’s problem. And destroyed her.

>

The page led them to tall ornately carved and painted double doors. He pushed the doors open and preceded them into the room. Suzanne gave an inaudible gasp, her eyes wide at the sight before her. If being received by a Queen could be construed as a measure of one’s worth in the world - then this room would demolish that perception. It was not a room to inspire confidence in one’s value – rather, it was room designed as a reminder of how truly small and insignificant a person’s life could be.

It was a great hall, longer than wide. The ceiling soared high above them, adorned with elaborate plaster-work and beautiful frescoes. Light spilled into the room from tall windows set in deep and ornamented arches highlighting an elaborate light and dark pattern on the polished parquet floor. Overhead candelabras and glass adornments on silvered wall sconces sparkled in the sunlight, their glittering reflection caught and repeating in mirrors. Suzanne glimpsed a large tapestry, portraits and more frescoes. The colors were rich and dramatic. She could not see it all in a glance. She wanted to examine the artistic elements, the intricate carvings, the workmanship of the plaster, details of the inlaid cabinetry and feel the silk covering the walls and furnishings.

She looked toward the far wall. There was a low dais, with an embroidered cloth of honor hung on the wall behind extending to form a canopy. The Queen was sitting in a large white chair and a group of ladies elegantly gowned in richly colored silks arrayed next to her. Silently and with an air of detached interest, this courtly tableau watched the visitors as they crossed the floor and curtsied to the Queen. She noticed one woman, very beautiful with interesting pale blue eyes watching her mother – carefully. She wondered if her mother still had friends at court.

The Queen stepped down from the dais to take the hand of the Duchess of Aiguillon, ‘Your Grace,’ she said with a slight smile. ‘Majesty,’ replied the Duchess.

Sophia stood quietly her hands folded together. She and the Queen had once been close – when they were young and delighted in riding fast horses, trying to outrun the harried grooms. In those days they wondered about true love and less about real power. The Queen had granted permission for her and Lucien to marry – negotiated by the Cardinal’s best assassin. Sophia had thought she was just one more courtier – easily replaced by another who would practice a better form of fawning obedience. How wrong she had been - it was noticed that she preferred a life away from the court with an unsuitable privateer for a husband.

The Queen turned to her, ‘Your Grace,’ she was aloof and affected disinterest in finding her among the party.

‘Majesty,’ Sophia was careful to adopt a gracious tone, but her mind was racing and her stomach churning from both anger and anxiety. She was more unnerved than she had anticipated. She felt a suffocating sense of the danger to Lucien – what was in that letter? The power the Queen had over them – they should never have come here! It was too dangerous – what if the Queen decided to detain her? Suzanne! She glanced at the Duchess who smiled gently and sent a silent message - remember who you are.

The Queen turned to Suzanne, ‘this must be your daughter.’

‘Majesty.’ Suzanne stood quietly as the Queen studied her. Comminge’s words came back to her, your father is a traitor! The Queen is going to arrest him and hang him so all of Paris can watch his corpse rot!’

Undercurrents swirled around her. From the corner of her eye she saw her mother watching the Queen with a deceptively bland expression. Suddenly she was quite sure they did not belong in this room or in this palace – their lives were too small to hold up under this display of majestic supremacy.

‘Such beautiful eyes,’ the Queen remarked. ‘I am told you draw quite well.’

‘I do enjoy it Majesty,’ Suzanne replied. ‘Mmm..’ murmured the Queen, ‘the Duchess has taken you to the art academy and introduced you to M Poussin. You hope to study further?’

‘I do Majesty,’ she answered. ‘Shall we walk to the gallery,’ suggested the Queen, although it didn’t sound like a question. Suzanne’s lifted her gaze to the royal eyes in anticipation. It was the paintings she coveted. ‘Thank you, Majesty,’ and followed the Queen.

Sophia and the Duchess exchanged a glance and along with the ladies in attendance strolled behind them. A few ladies spoke to the Duchess but ignored Sophia. She was grateful for not drawing their unwanted attention. She did not wish to engage in the pedantic rituals of court dissembling. She focused on her daughter. As they stopped to examine a painting, Suzanne listened attentively to the Queen. Sophia moved to look out a tall window at the gardens below. The garrison was not far away. She wondered if D’Artagnan was there. She pursed her mouth –enough of having vague threats held up by him and his Musketeers – she would demand he answer her questions. What danger did he present for Lucien? 

As they moved slowly down the gallery, she looked around at the ladies accompanying the Queen and caught the studied look from the one she did not know. The woman inclined her head in greeting and smiled, but it did not reach her pale blue eyes. Sophia did not recognize her and looked away. If the woman was of any significant rank, the Duchess would have acknowledged her. The woman was just another of the Queen’s sycophants. Sophia could practice her own aristocratic air of disinterest and ignore all of those.

A whispered voice behind her, ‘Sophia!’ she turned. ‘Edith!’ The smiling face of the Marquess de Come beamed at her and clasped her hands. Here was an old friend. ‘I heard you were to come today,’ bubbled the Marquess, squeezing her hands and smiling continuously. ‘She is beautiful,’ the Marquess tilted her chin to indicate Suzanne. The two women slowed their pace to drift farther back in the group.

‘How is it you look the same,’ the Marquess said with a beaming smile taking Sophia’s arm. She was a small round woman with a round halo of pale hair framing her round face. ‘It’s not fair! You have so many children – how do you keep your figure!’ she exclaimed.

‘Chasing after them!’ chuckled Sophia, happy to see a friendly face. ‘Tell me your news Edith. How is it you are here and not at home?’ The Marquess raised her eyebrows and tilted her head side to side, ‘oh you know,’ she said brightly, ‘the Queen requested my presence – so here I am!’ she laughed at the whims of queens. But Sophia caught the note of unhappiness at being separated from her children.

‘It has been rather difficult for Her Majesty – all the upset and so many worries!’ the Marquess spoke in a confiding tone. ‘New people in the court too – not all well known to Her Majesty.’

‘I noticed one,’ Sophia was curious about the woman with pale eyes who seemed to stare at her.

‘Catherine de Renard,’ supplied Edith. ‘Her son is a Comte of something near Pinon. Slippery that one,’ she wrinkled her pert nose, ‘but she has managed to capture the Queen’s favor.’

‘I do not believe I know her,’ said Sophia, but she couldn’t be sure. Pinon was close to the old de la Fere estate. Perhaps Athos had introduced her. There were hundreds of courtiers at one time or another. She barely remembered anyone.

‘How is your handsome husband?’ the Marquess’ eyes gleamed in devilish amusement. ‘He has caused all sorts of mischief!’ Sophia rolled her eyes, ‘men,’ she summarized the problem hoping to avoid a lengthy discussion.

The group had come to a stop. The tour was over, and the Queen was leaving. Her ladies walked a little distance ahead of her and waited.  
The Queen looked at Sophia for a long moment, with no expression. ‘It would please me to see you here again Your Grace.’ Her group of ladies parted for her as she walked towards them. With a leisured gait they passed through the doors and were gone.

>

Outside Suzanne was getting into the Duchess’ carriage. M la Reynie was coming to the Duchess’ home to finalize their plans. Lucien would be there too.

‘Will you not ride with us?’ encouraged the Duchess. ‘I will be there shortly,’ replied Sophia and did not make further explanation. She peered inside the carriage, ‘was that everything you thought it would be?’ she asked her daughter. Suzanne looked a little dazed.

‘I cannot fully grasp all of it,’ she replied. The Duchess laughed and covered the young woman’s hand with hers. ‘Time for a bracing glass of sweet wine!’ and rapped on the side of the carriage.

Sophia watched the carriage move away, gave instructions to her driver, pulled her hood over her head and her billowing silk cloak around her. She took a deep breath and stepped briskly in the direction of the garrison. She would seize the opportunity to get what she wanted from D’Artagnan. And then she would think about blackmailers.

She walked purposefully past the open gate and through the arched entryway. The yard was deserted except for the two Musketeers sitting at a worn wooden table at the foot of the stairs. At the sound of her footsteps, they stopped talked and turned towards her. She recognized the smaller of the two. She swept past ignoring them, gathering her skirts and ran up the stairs

‘Your Grace!’ The Musketeer was calling out and coming up the stairs after her. She kept going, striding down the gallery and through the outer door, a short hallway to the door leading into the office. She heard footsteps rapidly approaching behind her.

She didn’t wait, lifting the latch and pushed at the door. It did not open fully but enough to glimpse a hooded figure that rose and moved swiftly through another opened door, closing it with a soft click. She walked across the room to the opposite wall and looked out the window at the yard below. She fought to compose herself. She could hardly breathe.

She knew the height and breath of him, the set of his shoulders and his figure at any distance as he sat a horse. She knew the sound of his booted step matched to the pattern of his gait. She knew every expression shaped by the stern features of his face, or his bearing with his back turned to her.

Athos.

‘Your Grace!’ The Musketeer was in the doorway clearly distressed to see her already inside the Captain’s office – unannounced and unexpected. D’Artagnan was still in his chair, lifting his brows in surprise at the Duchess de la Croix standing in his office and de Thierry standing just outside. He frowned at his Musketeer.

‘Apologies Captain,’ the young man started to say. Was it her imagination or did he sound almost – abject. She glared at the Musketeer – no apologies were needed for her. To his credit, he did not stare back at her, but shifted uneasily and looked unhappily at his captain. She made a short grunt of disapproval – stalked across the room and slammed the door in his face.

‘Really Your Grace,’ cried D’Artagnan in objection, scrapping his chair back to stand and come around his desk, ‘that might be interpreted as impertinent.’ He leaned back against the desk and crossed his arms over his chest fixing a disapproving stare at her. She narrowed her eyes at him in return – she would not be intimidated. D’Artagnan was hiding Athos within the garrison.

‘It was impertinent to send that man - that de Thierry -to my home and he was impertinent while he was there!’ she said crossly. She started to continue with her litany of complaints about the Musketeer and stopped. She was not here to argue at random with D’Artagnan. She had a plan. She rolled her shoulders and plastered a disingenuous smile on her frowning face.

‘I apologize for intruding in this way,’ she lied easily. His expression did not change. ‘I had hoped to talk with you – reasonably.’ He raised his brow in question and lifted one hand, ‘about…?’

‘Your investigation Captain,’ she answered with haughty impatience. ‘As you already know, I believed Mlle du Pouget to be my daughter. The daughter that was taken from me at birth and concealed from my knowledge,’ her voice was rising in indignation. ‘Or perhaps this is something you have always known?’

It was a bold charge. He started in surprise at her question that was more a blatant accusation. If she were a man, he would challenge her. Good she thought – how is it to be asked such questions?

Had Athos been involved? Should she march to that door, yank it open and demand he tell her the truth?

‘I demand to know the progress of your investigation. Have you have discovered her murderer?’

She dropped into the nearest chair to wait for his answer, placed her hands in her lap, glanced briefly around his office and back to him. She gave him her best aristocratic look of arrogant disdain. He stared down at her in what looked like incredulity. He scratched at his neck and looked at her again.

‘No.’

Now she stared at him in disbelief, ‘that’s it? Just no?’

‘You do remember there is reason to suspect your husband?’ She scoffed at him, ‘don’t be ridiculous. You know he did not kill her….’

‘He visited her, he…’

‘I sent him to see her!’ she jumped to her feet. ‘She came to our home. The Duchess of Aiguillon was there! We thought she might be our daughter!’ Abruptly she sat back down. She waved her hand in a weary sign of dismissal.

‘You already know this D’Artagnan. I don’t understand why you pursue him for a crime you know he did not commit.’

‘He committed other crimes!’ D’Artagnan replied angrily. ‘You know that.’

Silence fell between them – but she had what she wanted. D’Artagnan would pursue a case against Lucien for a murder he did not commit - hoping to arrest him for the offense about which none of them could argue - firing a bullet into Treville twelve years ago.

A strange lethargy came over her. She smoothed her hair with her hand absently. She had a memory from many years ago, on the long return from the border to Paris - of D’Artagnan pulling her into a dance in an open square in a small village. Country dances he had laughed – be brave my lady! you cannot take a wrong step. But that was before.

Sadness filled her. She looked at D’Artagnan – he didn’t look much happier. She stood and laid a hand tentatively on his arm, ‘I trust Alexander is well? Will you give my love to Constance? I promise to write to her,’ she spoke softly.

He nodded and looked down at her hand, and after a moment he covered it with his own. His eyes reflected her regret. He opened his mouth to speak but said nothing.

‘I’ll go now,’ she murmured withdrawing her hand and walking slowly to the door.

‘Sophia,’ he called to her. She paused but did not turn around. ‘I am grateful for Lucien’s intervention and saving my man.’ 

Her hand hovered over the latch. Another something that Lucien had failed to mention to her. She didn’t dare look at D’Artagnan. She nodded, lifted the latch and started through the doorway.

‘He must leave Paris Sophia. He must leave Paris immediately.’


	81. The Oath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who ordered the attack against M. de Rohan?  
> What is Madame de Chevreuse's scheme and how is Athos involved?  
> M. de Thierry makes a promise and Raoul takes an oath...

**Author: Mordaunt**

 

 _But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,  
_ _All losses are restor'd, and sorrows end._

_(William Shakespeare, Sonnet 30: When to the Sessions of Sweet Silent Thought)_

 

The message is scribbled in bad French but its meaning is clear: someone is asking the wrong questions. De Wardes reads it quickly and throws it into the fire. It crumbles and sizzles as it turns into ash. His back is turned so Madame de Chevreuse cannot observe the flash of anger that crosses his dark blue eyes. When he turns towards her he is his usual self: aloof and disinterested.

“Bad news, cousin?” She reclines on a settee, mindlessly playing with a lock of her hair. They are in the great salon, the one with the fresco of Apollo chasing Daphne on its domed ceiling. The warm slanted light of the setting sun floods through the windows. It shifts and changes as it wanders in the vast room, animating the marble surfaces, the statues, and the wall paintings that depict deep Arcadian forests filled with Maenads and Bacchae. 

“Nothing important,” he shrugs dismissively, sprawling himself into an armchair. “How is our dear Marie? How did she take the news?” He is not particularly interested in Mademoiselle Mancini’s wellbeing, but it helps him deflect his cousin’s observant eyes.

“She wept a little. But she will be fine. She is a sensible girl, and they will arrange a good marriage for her.” Madame de Chevreuse replies.

“They want him to marry Spain, I hear,” de Wardes interjects. “Ugly, stupid, and his cousin, but she ensures the end of the war.”

“Spain is bankrupt,” Madame de Chevreuse observes. “They will never be able to pay a dowry…”

“The fat Spanish puppy will have to marry without her trousseau. That is, if she even ends up marrying him,” he scoffs. “Such a disgrace for France. But then again, it was to be expected. We are ruled by commoners and riffraff from the street. She brought all that scum upon us, your dear Anne!” he adds.

Madame de Chevreuse sighs, raising her eyebrows dismissively, a sneer at the edge of her lips.

“I would have remained abroad if I were you, even if it was in exile,” de Wardes continues with disdain. “The court of France, once the envy of Europe, has now turned into a stinking cesspool.”

“Flanders was exceedingly boring,” she shrugs. “No excitement at all, besides the occasional French theater!”

“Ah!” he chuckles. “I see you met Filandre!” (1)

“Colorful,” she intones, “A quick tongue and a slow mind. But even that gets tedious after a while.”

“We are equally desperate at court,” he sighs.  

“If everyone is like that de Renard,” she interrupts him, “I can see why.”

He laughs. “Was he a complete disaster? I have made him my latest project! 

 “You are too generous, my love!” she smirks, “I daresay you are wasting your time.”

“Ah! You know me, cousin! I give, and give, asking for nothing!” he declares smiling with false humility, waving his hand. “De Renard is entertaining, and I am bored to tears. You should meet his mother! The Spaniard added that woman to her retinue! All dried up and frigid,” he shudders with disgust.

“Oh, this is tragic, indeed!” Madame de Chevreuse laughs. 

“We need you back at court, cousin!” he exclaims, his eyes flashing with rare excitement. 

“Easier said than done,” she sighs.   

“I am certain, however,” he interjects, his eyes fixed on hers with great intensity, “that you have something in mind already or you would not have asked to see me immediately.”

“I do,” she says quietly. “I do indeed. But for that, I must somehow get a letter to Anne. A letter that will not be intercepted, and will reach her hands safely.”

He sits back, folding his arms around his chest. He looks thrilled. “Dare I ask what is in that letter?”

“A very simple offer,” she shrugs. “I can procure a certain someone, whose head Anne hopes to see on a spike.”

“Please don’t tell me, it’s Lucien Grimaud!” he sneers.

“I have no idea who that is,” she replies. “What a dismal commoner name. No. I mean someone who served our cause, but his idealism is now a compromise…" 

He looks at her with intrigued eyes. “This sounds promising. Let me guess! Not de Beaufort, surely. He is definitely not an idealist. Besides it would be too easy and too obvious…” She leans back, sphinxlike and impenetrable. “Oh, it is that good!” he exclaims. “Now I must know!”

“You don’t know him,” she retorts her tone still inscrutable. “At least, I do not think you do. But your father knew him: the Comte de la Fére.”

De Wardes exhales with great exasperation. “I know him, unfortunately. What a dreadful coincidence,” he replies, the corner of his lips now curved in a mischievous smile. “This man’s name is everywhere lately. Detestable brute. Remember our beloved Marceaux? He died in the hands of this de la Fére and his gang of cutthroat Musketeers. His son, a certain Vicomte de Bragelonne is all the King talks about these days. It is becoming tedious. He is even worse than de Renard, who is equally obsessed with the man.”

"De Bragelonne !" Madame de Chevreuse interjects. Now it all makes sense: all the rumors, the gossip, and then, the young man she met at Planchet’s.  “He was the lover of that actress!” she exclaims.

De Wardes stretches in his chair as if the conversation bores him exceedingly. “The man arrived at court one day with de Guiche and became a favorite the next,” he continues ignoring her comment about Cecille du Pouget.

“He is good then?” she inquires with curiosity.

He shrugs. “He is new. He is a peer. It all gets old after a while...”

“Especially if de Renard is obsessed with him,” she chuckles. “Why is de Renard obsessed with this Bragelonne anyway? Is it the story about his title again? All he could talk about last night was how the de la Fére titles and lands belong to him.”

 “I can see why de Renard was such a disaster in bed,” de Wardes laughs. “Dearest cousin, I must apologize for introducing you to the man. I thought he had potential.” She raises a dismissive eyebrow but remains silent. “So what unpardonable crime has that de la Fére really committed, cousin? Come, confess! Did he dare reject your warm embrace?”

She gives a mirthless laugh. “He did. On a point of principle,” she sneers. “I was married at the time, and he thought himself a very principled man.”

“Principled?” de Wardes scoffs. “The man is married to a murdering whore. Do you know Anne de Winter? My father knew her well,” he adds with malevolent glee in his eyes.

“She was a paid assassin for that viper Richelieu,” Madame de Chevreuse replies. “I know of her… Married to her you say?”

“Bragelonne is their son,” de Wardes replies waving his arm in a nonchalant manner. “Don’t ask me how the son of a murderous whore is a peer. Anything is possible these days.”

She leans back, her calculating eyes fixed upon de Wardes.

“Oh, I know that look!” de Wardes laughs. “It does not bode well for poor de la Fére or his head.” 

“It is a very handsome head,” she observes, and he chuckles.

“I have no doubt. And what inspired you to seek out this old hapless lover?” he asks with mischievous glee.

“I happened upon him in Paris, quite unexpectedly,” she shrugs.

He sits back in his armchair, narrowing his eyes, his tone inquisitive: “Let me ask cousin, for I am puzzled. Are you willing to sacrifice the mere joy of witnessing de la Fére surrender all his principles at your feet so that you can join a court where de Renard’s frigid mother is the closest the Spaniard has to a friend?” 

“If join the court, we can change all this!” she replies. “But who says that will not entertain myself with the man first,” she adds an impish glimmer in her blue eyes.

“Cousin!” de Wardes exclaims with excitement. “You have been sorely missed! Your return to court is imperative!” He stands up and begins to pace in the room. The light has dimmed now, the sun having set. “There could be a way to get a letter directly to the Spaniard,” he says after a while. “I may have a way…”

“A servant?” she probes.

“No,” he replies, a sly smirk glimmering in his eyes. “Something far more reliable. Give me a few days.”

She stands up from the settee and walks up to him, her fingers touching his cheek softly. “I plan a little gift for you, my darling,” she whispers in his ear. “I was thinking of visiting Bicêtre now that I have returned. You know how much I have always cared about those poor orphans, and how important it is for our cause to show philanthropy. Besides, it is Lent, and I must atone for all my sins.” She winks and he chuckles. “I will also be looking for a young maid,” she adds, her eyes fixed in his. “What do you think? Someone fair and pure?”

\--- ---- ----- 

Once alone in the salon after his cousin’s departure, M. de Wardes hurries to his desk and quickly composes a message. He uses his left hand instead of his right, which masks his handwriting making it look messy, uneven, and awkward.

> “ _You have disappointed me greatly_ ,” the message reads, “ _and I do not like being disappointed.  
>  __Make sure the problem disappears tonight. I do not care how you do it. Get rid of the Musketeer.  
>  It’s just one man after all. Do not disappoint me again.”_

He does not sign the message nor seal it with his ring. “Take this to the place you know at the Rue St. Paul immediately!” he orders his valet.

***********************************************************

“He lost a lot of blood and he has a fever but the wound is not deep. It will heal if he rests a while,” the surgeon tells Raoul and M. de Thierry. He is an old soldier, trained in the battlefields rather than a physician educated in the halls of the university, but he has saved more men in battle than most of these well-trained physicians will save in a lifetime. It is early still, an hour or so after the morning call. “The Captain and M. Marchal were just here to see M. de Rohan, so he is tired,” the surgeon adds.  “You cannot stay long.” Raoul nods in agreement. He and M. Marchal carried their injured friend to his room, and insisted on staying with him for the entire night but Madame d’ Artagnan kicked them out of the room declaring that their job was to see him vindicated, and her job was to help the surgeon keep him alive.

In his room, under to the open window, M. de Rohan lays in bed, his head supported by pillows, his handsome face pallid and gaunt, marked by a scar along his right temple. His bandaged chest is uncovered, as if the early morning chill can cool down his fever, and help his labored breathing. M. de Thierry, feels suddenly light headed, as if his feet cannot carry him closer to that bed. It is not that he has not seen injured men before, M. de Rohan included. It is that he cannot bear to see his old friend suffering because of his own incompetence. He got distracted. He hesitated. Even Grimaud yelled at him, and this time, Grimaud was right. He fought those brigands like some dumb novice. He missed a close shot. He feels his chest tightening once again and his heart pounding, but he is determined to think it away this time. I will not be intimidated by my own pathetic stupidity, he tells himself, I am a Musketeer. Still, he lingers behind silently, while Raoul moves ahead, and sits at the side of the bed. “Jean,” Raoul says, pressing his friend’s hand “how are you, cousin?” M. de Rohan breathes in deeply, and opens his eyes, his clear blue gaze dimmed by fever. “Raoul?” he whispers, his voice hoarse and weak.

“I am here, cousin,” Raoul intones. “M. de Thierry too…”

“Thierry…” M. de Rohan’s voice wonders, “don’t let him in here…” He tries to raise his head but falls back, exhausted. He closes his eyes again his chest heaving with sharp rapid breaths, the white linen of his bandage becoming stained with blood.  

“Good Lord!” Raoul exclaims and motions for the door. “I will go fetch the surgeon, stay with him!” he calls to M. de Thierry, who remains standing away from the bed, as if nailed to the floor.

What is it like to weep? M. de Thierry wonders. He feels a knot blocking his throat, his eyes stinging. Is this what tears feel like? He is very cold in this room suddenly, trembling. He approaches the bed tentatively, and touches his friend’s burning hand. M. de Rohan’s breath quivers and his eyes flicker. “Lieutenant, I am very sorry…” M. de Thierry tries to say but his voice is drowned by a sob. You are a pathetic fool, he tells himself but still he cannot stop. M. de Rohan opens his eyes just for a moment. “It is all my fault, Lieutenant,” M. de Thierry says, his voice steady and composed now. He can tell that his friend can neither see nor hear him but it makes no difference. He has no idea what it is that grips him suddenly. It is a pressing feeling that he must act immediately, that he should not waste a single valuable moment: that this time will not be as it was in the past with Rato, and Madame Ninon, and Bernard, and Agnes, and Beatrice, and Robert, and all those other old friends he lost without warning. M. de Thierry has no idea what it is that grips him suddenly, but he succumbs to it. He gently picks up his friend’s hand and brings it to his lips. “I am so very sorry” he whispers as he kisses M. de Rohan’s hand. “I swear I will never hesitate again. I swear I will never let this happen again.” The door of the room flings open and M. de Thierry springs to his feet.  Raoul hurries back into the room followed by the surgeon and Madame d’ Artagnan.

\--- ---- ---------

“You scared us, Lieutenant!” M. Marchal smiles stretching himself on one of the chairs in M. de Rohan’s room. Raoul sits on the side of the bed, looking equally relieved. M. de Thierry sits at some distance from the rest. Best to remain in the shadows, he reckons. It feels like a good place for him. He is elated that his old friend is convalescing, but he is oppressed by a sense of sadness and disappointment: he failed his old friend, he failed his comrades, he failed his Captain and not just once. He cannot forget the anger in his Captain’s eyes when the Duchess de la Croix, Grimaud’s wife, stormed into his office unannounced, placing M. de la Fére’s life at risk. M. de Thierry could not stop her either. One more failure…

“I am not that easy to kill, I hope!” M. de Rohan quips. He is seated on his bed, looking more like himself, although still pale. “Even when attacked by seven… What were those men? A gang? Brigands?”

“Lucien sounded certain that they were pirates,” M. Marchal affirms. “They fought that way too.”

“Lucien Grimaud! Who’d have thought?” M. de Rohan chuckles, but immediately stops. It occurs to him that Raoul might not think Grimaud a laughing matter. “I apologize, cousin,” he adds quietly.

“You were lucky Grimaud intervened,” Raoul retorts, his tone restrained and somber. “What I think of the man is irrelevant. I wonder though why he did it.”

“There is a saying among those of us who grew up in the Court of Miracles M. de Bragelonne,” M. Marchal interjects. “No one knows the reasons Lucien Grimaud does anything. Not even Lucien Grimaud.”

M. de Thierry remembers he has heard the aphorism too. Maybe it was at Flea’s tavern, maybe from Nanette. The talk of Lucien Grimaud makes him feel uneasy. He does not like to fail. Now he not only failed but Lucien Grimaud witnessed it. It bothers him exceedingly, and he is not sure why. “Why would pirates attack you, Lieutenant? Why would they attack a Musketeer without any provocation?” M. de Thierry asks, eager to move the conversation as far from Lucien Grimaud as possible.

“Exactly, Jean,” Raoul chimes in. “What were you doing in that tavern?”

M. de Rohan takes a deep breath and recounts the entire story, from his visit to the Marais and the information that led him to the ‘Chevalier au cigne’ looking for the man called Rouge, who drives the black carriage, to the conversation he overheard between Grimaud and the bawd from the house at the Rue Bondel about a second dead girl. “I told the Captain all this too,” he adds. “He agrees with me that the attack must be connected to this investigation.”

M. de Thierry lowers his eyes. How much should he reveal? He decides to tread very carefully. To keep what he knows about Rouge to himself. After all, what he knows happened very long ago and has nothing to do with the attack against M. de Rohan. “I can confirm that there were other young women victims, Lieutenant,” M. de Thierry says instead. “That is the word in the street. I went to the wharf where we found Cecille du Pouget. That is where the second girl, Rosina, a young prostitute, was supposedly found also.”

“And…?” Raoul urges him impatiently.

“Nothing. People were not even sure which of the two young women they saw. Cecille du Pouget and Rosina must have looked very much alike…”

“Meaning?” M. de Rohan sounds intrigued.

“I don’t know, Lieutenant,” M. de Thierry replies. “It may be a coincidence. I was told of a third girl, a young maid called Alphonsine who disappeared also. She looked nothing like the other two. But maybe it is important.”

“At this point we do not even know if the young prostitute’s death is anything but a rumor,” M. Marchal interrupts M. de Thierry, dismissively. “What about the gates, M. de Thierry. Anything more useful from that quarter?”

M. de Thierry would have liked to talk about Death’s Carriage: how it is seen everywhere but mostly at the gate of St. Antoine, and rarely at that of St. Victor. How it disappears in thin air. He would have liked to talk about the death of the guard M. Tanquerrel also, who seemed to have died at the sight of it. But he decides to say nothing instead. Perhaps it is M. Marchal’s dismissive tone. After all, my investigation revealed very little, he reckons. Had I not delayed this much, wasting my time asking stupid questions, I might have reached the wharf where M. de Rohan was attacked much earlier. Instead, I lingered talking about the colors of the sunset with Lucien Grimaud’s daughter. “Nothing important from the gates, M. Marchal” he replies quietly, lowering his eyes.

“But what are pirates doing in the middle of Paris?” Raoul insists. It is perplexing indeed. They all remain silent for a while but it is M. Marchal who speaks in the end. “My father, well… the man who fathered me, had dealings with some of those men. I was too young but from what I understand, they would be here in the city if they were waiting for something significant.”

“Such as? I do not follow,” M. de Rohan interjects. He looks as perplexed as Raoul.

“A cargo perhaps…” M. Marchal muses. “Or the contract for a new ship…”

“So, they are here,” Raoul repeats, trying to piece it together, “because they are waiting for some big prize that someone promised them or owes them, and in the meantime…”

“In the meantime, they work as hired killers,” M. Marchal continues. “I would expect they’d work for anyone but these men looked to me like a single crew not like a gang of random men. So, I would venture to say that they probably work for the same person who feeds them now. Perhaps this is also the same person who promised them their prize,” he adds.

“How can we find that person, then?” M. de Rohan pushes himself higher in the bed, clearly intrigued by the conversation. His blue eyes glimmer with excitement now and his complexion is animated and less pale.

M. Marchal chuckles. “Ask Lucien Grimaud? I know people at the Court of Miracles, it is true, but for information like this, one needs to go much deeper.”

"Let’s leave Lucien Grimaud out of it,” M. de Rohan replies quietly, noticing how Raoul is affected by the man’s name. “I apologize, Raoul,” he says.

“It is not that, Jean,” Raouls admits. “The man has indeed attacked me, and slandered me and my father. But he saved your life and for that I am grateful. It occurs to me however, that I am more to blame than anyone. You were almost killed because of me. You were attacked because you were asking questions about Cecille’s murder.” M. de Rohan is about to object, but Raoul stops him. He cannot stop thinking about the King’s impassioned letter inviting him back to court. “How can I repay you for this?” he continues. “How can I turn my back to all of this?”

“Bragelonne, what do you mean?” M. de Thierry interjects quietly from his corner. “Why would you turn your back to this?”

Raoul leans forward rubbing his forehead with his hand. “Raoul, what has happened?” M. de Rohan insists.

Raoul looks up now. There is sadness in his gray eyes, and great concern. “His Majesty demands I return to court,” he says. “He declares my involvement with Cecille’s death nothing but slander. But I know it is not. We all know it is not. An innocent woman died. Not in my hands but in someone’s hands.” 

“If His Majesty asks you back, then back you go,” M. Marchal interrupts Raoul.

“No!” Raoul protests. “This must not be so. I am not some pawn that moves according to the whims of his King. What about justice? What about my honor, my name, my family’s name?”

“We all are the King’s pawns,” M. Marchal shrugs.

“No, M. Marchal, this is not true,” M. de Rohan interjects. His tone is severe but not angry. “We are men of honor. We serve our King but we respect ourselves. The two go hand in hand. M. Bragelonne faces a great dilemma indeed,” he adds.

“I am not sure what I should do,” Raoul intimates with much emotion.

In the silence, it is M. de Thierry who speaks, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “I do not think it is for us to advise you, Bragelonne,” he says. “But we may have another way to help you.”

“You do?” Raoul sounds perplexed.

“What we can give you, instead of advice,” M. de Thierry continues, “is a way to find the solution yourself, knowing exactly where you stand, and who you are.”

“I see exactly what M. de Thierry means!” M. de Rohan intones. “It is a brilliant idea, and I daresay it should have happened earlier.”

“Of course!” M. Marchal exclaims, with a smile. “We should have thought of it earlier.”

“I do not follow Messieurs…” Raoul declares bewildered. But he can see an impish glint the eyes of his three comrades, even those of M. de Thierry, whose demeanor has been very depressed.

“M. de Thierry is right, Vicomte,” M. de Rohan says in a tone too formal suddenly. “You see, only the King can grant a commission to the Musketeers, and a position of that kind would not be appropriate for a peer and a man of your standing. This however, does not mean that you cannot partake in the Musketeer brotherhood. That is not for any King to decide. As a son of a Musketeer, you have every right. But all of us here agree, that you have earned that right for yourself already.”

Raoul stands up quite overwhelmed. “You mean…”

M. Rohan extends his hand and all three approach. “Yes, that is exactly what we mean Vicomte,” M. Marchal teases him.

“Well then,” Raoul says joining hands with his three friends. “Messieurs, let us now and forever vow: One for All, All for One.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Madame de Chevreuse was exiled to Flanders. The life of the actor known as Filandre or Philandre (Jean Mathée or Jean Baptiste Mouchaingre) is not well pieced together but it appears that Floridor (the director of the Marais until 1648) brought him to Paris from Flanders. There is no evidence that these two characters ever met or interacted but it is convenient for the story here.


	82. ‘Hell is empty…’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucien searches for the pirate crew who attacked de Rohan and sets plans in motion and is given an ultimatum.

_You want to cry aloud for your_  
mistakes. But to tell the truth the world  
doesn’t need anymore of that sound. (Mary Oliver, from The Poet with His Face in His Hands) 

 

The candle flickered with his breath as he leaned closer to study the gems. Their translucent surfaces glimmered in the dim light, palest moon white, rose, gleaming purples and aquamarine. The man made a small sound of approval. Pearls. These were beauties and would be sold for a handsome profit. He would make money tonight. He scooped the pearls into a separate soft pouch. He smiled at the man sitting across from him.  


They were in a room above his tiny shop in a tall thin building. It was in a long lineup of decrepit structures hunched menacingly over a narrow twisting dirt street pockmarked with muddy holes. A putrid miasma wafted up for tasting by those slinking close to the buildings vying with rats, hissing feral cats and skinny dogs for the safety of the shadows. It was a small room, the window latched from the inside and covered with a dark cloth. A table, two chairs and a few candles completed the furnishings. 

‘Well done, my friend,’ said the receiver, ‘these are of excellent quality!’ His pale eyes gleamed in the shadowed room. ‘Did you steal them from some royal vault?’

The other man laughed and cocked one thick dark eyebrow mischievously running thumb and forefinger over his long mustache. He opened his mouth to speak… 

The door flew open crashing against the wall, two cloaked men were inside, one with a pistol in his hand. He backhanded the man standing and knocked him sprawling to the floor. The second man took one quick step to the startled man at the desk, grabbed him by the back of the head and smashed his face down onto the table and rapidly yanked him back upright. Blood spurted from his nose and mouth. He screamed.

‘That was not the answer I was looking for,’ the voice held menace, but more frightening was its soft disinterested tone. The bleeding victim rolled his eyes to see his attacker and looked into dark malevolent eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut with dread and moaned.

Lucien Grimaud. 

‘What do you have here Firmin?’ Grimaud flicked his fingers at the small pouches arrayed in a neat line on the table. ‘Doing some business tonight?’ The man sagged in his chair, pale and looking sick with fear.

‘Speak up man!’ ordered Grimaud. ‘Do we have friends from Marseille here? I would like to meet them.’ He gripped the frightened man by the back of his head again. A strangled pleading cry came from Firmin whose eyes rolled up. He tried to shake his head.

Grimaud sighed theatrically, ‘Not the answer I was looking for,’ and tightened his hold. The unfortunate Fermin was making frantic gargled noises and thrusting his chin outward.

‘I think he’s trying to point to this fellow,’ said a deep accented voice. Grimaud looked up. He cuffed Firmin’s aching head hard as he shoved the chair back and stood stretching to his full height, hands to his hips.

‘Well well well…’ he drawled, ‘look at who we have here.’ He walked around the desk slowly until he was directly in front of the fallen man, prodding him with a booted foot. He crossed his arms over his chest, his wolfish mouth drawn into a humorless smile.

‘This day just gets better and better,’ he said with an ominous tone, ‘wouldn’t you agree Martin?’ The giant man holding the pistol chuckled.

‘Emil Bonnaire,’ Lucien announced to no one in particular. ‘Get up!’ he barked. Bonnaire’s fearful eyes flickered to him but returned immediately to focus on the pistol leveled at him. Grimaud leaned down and slapped him, pointing to his own face.

‘Eyes here Bonnaire!’ he ordered. ‘I’m asking the questions! That man,’ he jerked his head toward the mercenary, ‘is only going to shoot you!’

‘Yes…yes,’ stammered Bonnaire scrambling to his feet, ‘M Grimaud! How extraordinary to see you!’ Bonnaire beat at his clothing with shaking hands to rid himself of dirt and dust. He looked around for his fallen hat all the while beaming at his remarkable good fortune at finding Lucien Grimaud.

‘Why is that?’ exclaimed Grimaud incredulously, ‘I live here you idiot!’

‘Yes!’ agreed Bonnaire with nervous enthusiasm, ‘so you do sir! You live here! Indeed, you do sir!’ He grinned idiotically, ‘well – not here!’ he gestured around the dingy room, giggling madly, ‘but there and how extraordinary!’ he waved wildly around his head.

‘Why are _you_ here?’ demanded Grimaud and winced as Bonnaire looked to the small pouches of gems on the fence’s table.

Grimaud sighed deeply, ‘you too Emil? You insist on lying to me?’

‘No sir!’ Bonnaire almost shouted his declaration of innocence. ‘Just a few stones to sell…’ he effected a winsome look, ‘you know how one can come into a few odd gems here and there…’ Grimaud snickered, ‘what lady did you importune to bed and then rob?’

‘Sir!’ Bonnaire was indignant, ‘I came by these…’ he hesitated, ‘well sir – no bedding was involved. The lady’s honor is as I found her.’ Martin guffawed and Grimaud grinned too, ‘only half a scoundrel then.’ The three men laughed together. Grimaud grabbed Bonnaire’s chin in a pincher grip.

‘Why are you here - Captain? What is your cargo?’ Bonnaire gasped at the viselike grip on his face. He could barely move his jaw. ‘Who gets the money from these?’ he held up a small pouch shaking it in Bonnaire’s face.

‘I do not know the cargo,’ he mumbled through his compressed mouth. ‘The hell you say,’ sneered Grimaud. ‘Slaves – that’s why you are here.’  
Bonnaire swallowed hard. ‘I wasn’t told. I was to meet someone yesterday – give them the money. No one came. I wait again tonight.’ He whimpered and rolled his eyes pleadingly to Grimaud’s snarling face. ‘I wasn’t told…’

‘Bastard,’ intoned Grimaud softly and released his grip. He stood up abruptly towering over the quaking man. ‘Get out of the city Bonnaire – if I hear of you or your men still here tomorrow, I will flay you alive on my own wharf – do you hear me?’

‘You tell that to Benito,’ he hissed into the man’s face. Bonnaire paled, ‘I don’t know what you….’

Grimaud grabbed him by his doublet and shook him hard, ‘I know the scum you work for – you tell Benito I said so!’ He tossed the slaver away from him in disgust and turned on his heel. He paused at the desk and glared at Firmin who was rubbing his painful face. Grimaud scooped up the small bags.

‘My fee for not killing you – yet.’

>

Lucien stepped out into the street and waited for Martin. Warily, he looked in both directions. This was a dangerous street within the meanest neighborhood. He had walked this neighborhood months ago – on a grim search for his daughter praying he would not find her on these streets. Here were the traders to satisfy the worst of human vices purveying their wares in the dark slits of shadows like roasting chestnuts and fruit pastries sold in friendly markets in the warm sunlight. Even Lucien Grimaud needed to look where he was going.

The two men started to walk away, when a shadow moved in the alleyway. Instantly Lucien had his sword in his hand, ‘who’s there!’ he brandished his sword menacingly toward the threat.

‘It’s just me,’ called a thin high voice, ‘just me M Grimaud.’ Friquet emerged from the shadows, hands held over his head.

‘What are you doing here boy?’ Lucien said crossly, ‘it too dangerous – you know better!’ Lucien caught the youngster by the collar. 

‘What have I told you about following me?’ he admonished the boy, ‘you cannot go wherever I go. We’ve talked about this Friquet!’

Martin leaned down to peer into the boy’s guilty and anxious face, ‘so you want to be a big man someday?’ Friquet shook his head vigorously, ‘no sir! I want to work for M Grimaud – I want to work for the real ‘king of Paris!’ he declared loyally. Lucien laughed and gave him a gentle cuff on the back of his head.

‘The first thing my men learn is to follow my orders!’ he said, ‘you will walk with us out of this pestilential street and go to your grandmother’s house.’ The boy’s face screwed up in objection, but Lucien tapped him on the forehead, ‘and be glad Flea doesn’t know that you are here following me again - against my orders.’

Friquet’s face fell as he considered Flea’s reaction. He would be scrubbing floors and hauling chamber pots for months. Obediently he nodded. ‘Yes sir,’ he mumbled. Martin clapped his meaty hand on the boy’s shoulder. Swords in their hands, Martin and Lucien walked down the street, the boy between them, crossing the river and up a cobbled street.

‘Off you go,’ said Lucien and the men watched Friquet hurry down the street. Martin laughed, ‘you’ve got yourself another child to raise.’ Lucien chuckled, ‘Flea will have my hide if anything happens to that boy. She loves him like she birthed him.’

Friquet turned to wave and the men continued down the street. Outside Flea’s tavern, Lucien turned to Martin, ‘tell Flea that there are slavers here – she needs to send out a warning,’ Martin grimaced and nodded. ‘You think that crew belongs to Bonnaire?’

‘Unlikely for Bonnaire,’ Lucien agreed. ‘He’s more a fool and a lackey for Benito. But – whether it’s Bonnaire or Benito - I’m going to send some men up and down the river – the usual places. At least we can make it difficult.’

‘Any news on the family?’ he asked Martin. The big mercenary nodded, ‘they should be back soon.’

‘Good,’ said Lucien. ‘And the party for our friend?’ At this the big soldier grinned, ‘all the invitations have been sent.’

‘Tomorrow then,’ chuckled Lucien. The stable boy was walking towards him with his horse.

‘M la Reynie has completed his preparations. They will be ready to leave soon,’ said Lucien taking the reins and handing the boy several coins. The boy’s eyes lit up at the amount and bowed gratefully. The two men stood silently, listening to the noise inside the tavern. Martin clapped a platter-sized hand on his shoulder.

‘Don’t worry – we won’t let anyone get close – they will be safe,’ the mercenary promised. ‘I don’t care in what bleeping great lord’s house they stay we will be across the doorways.’

‘No doubt snoring loud enough to keep Her Grace from any sleep,’ jested Lucien. Martin’s laugh rumbled deep in his big chest, ‘then I’ll give her the pistols to shoot whoever tries to step over me!’

>

He turned his horse up the drive to the house and reined to a stop. There were lights in almost every window. Puzzled, he urged his horse to a faster pace. He rode around to the back and dismounted handing the reins to the boy, entering the house through the kitchen. Huge boxes and crates were lined up in the center of the room, the disembodied booming voice of the cook shouting orders to the scullery maids. They seemed to be scurrying in all directions carrying table linens, silver services and table candelabras among the kitchen hardware. He stopped to watch the chaos. The cook emerged from the pantry, the assistant cooks hard on her heels. They both stopped abruptly at the sight of their master.

‘Sir!’ exclaimed their cook. She was a portly woman, red-faced and clearly agitated. She frowned at him – as though the chaos in her normally immaculate kitchen was his fault.

‘What is all this?’ and thereby declaiming himself as befuddled as she about the cause.

‘Madame has ordered the entire household to prepare to return home sir - immediately,’ she looked confused. Didn’t he know what they were doing?

Apparently, he didn’t. This morning she had scoffed again at his insistence she return to Royamount. And tonight, it seemed the entire household was ordered to leave within the hour. What had happened?

‘Where is Madame?’ he asked. The stout woman widened her eyes at the mystery of her mistress’ whereabouts and waved her hand upward- somewhere in this enormous house was his wife. He walked from the kitchens to the entry hall and took the stairs two at a time. He went first to the drawing room. Servants were covering furniture with dust covers and footmen on ladders were placing shrouds over paintings. Delicate china and other objects were being safely secured in large chests. He continued to the wing that held their bedchambers.

More trunks and valises made it difficult to traverse the hallway. Inside Sophia’s dressing room her frazzled maid was directing two house maids pulling gowns and undergarments from her cupboards. Denise looked at him as he entered and pointed silently to the short hall that connected their two bedchambers. He walked into his room.

His saddle bags were on the floor and Sophia was watching two servants fold and store his clothing into the bags. She had changed out of her silk gown and the work dress she was wearing hung loosely on her. Her hair was carelessly piled on her head. The servants saw him first and straightened. She turned around.

He sucked in his breath – she was flushed from exertion, but that did not conceal the pallor of her skin. Her mouth was draw into a firm line, but he could see the slight tremble in lips. Her blue eyes were enormous, their iridescence a glittering warning of deep agitation – and fear.  
He looked at the servants and they vanished through the door closing it quietly.

‘What is this?’ he asked looking at the saddlebags and the clothes stacked neatly on the bed. ‘What has happened?’ He was walking toward her. She stepped back and held up a hand to stop him. He pushed her hand gently aside and took her by the arms. ‘Sophia…’

‘Athos is here – D’Artagnan is hiding him in the garrison. You can see Anne – go there on your way. It’s not much of a distance from the road. I think Joseph should go with you – although I do not like interrupting his lessons, but he could be useful when you get there. We are almost finished packing for you. I asked cook to prepare food. Yusuf is in the workroom assembling a few items….’ words and explanations were rushing from her. She wasn’t looking at him.

‘Slow down,’ he admonished. ‘What has happened?’ He gave her a little shake, ‘Sophia! What has happened?’ She stared at him, mouth slack and eyes staring at him, tears threatening to spill onto her cheeks.

What had happened she wondered. How had they gotten to this day, this hour – when she would insist – demand – that he mount his horse and ride away from her. For how long? She did not know. Once again, he was being hunted.

It had been a cold fall day when multicolored leaves blanketed graves in a small cemetery where a stone angel held her wings wide to protect a tiny burial against disturbances from eternal rest. But she had disturbed it and so began this terrible journey through abbey vaults smelling of mildew and musty records, hidden chests holding secrets from the dead, cold foundling homes and orphanages staffed with unsmiling nuns carrying switches with their prayer books. Sordid rooms in ramshackle buildings, wretched city streets and doorways serving as nighttime boudoirs for sleeping children. They slept entwined together for what little comfort and warmth they could find.

She had sent him there – and he had searched it all – alone with his fears and incomprehension at the hatred of men so deep that they would steal a baby girl and turn her into the world to suffer unknown abuses – to die alone in empty doorways, or dirty alleys or cold riverbanks. Ghostly taunts haunted his failure with their triumph. How could she blame him for transgressions that blunted his rage and tempered his anguish as hope waned at ever finding their unknown child. 

She knew now – they would never know her. In the absence of certainty – all that was left was the worst of their fears.  
Only one truth remained – she could not lose him too.

Her face crumbled and tears fell unheeded, ‘they are coming for you,’ she whispered choking back sobs. ‘Both Aramis and D’Artagnan warned me – you must leave Paris. They are coming for you…’ her voice trailed away.

‘I am not leaving you!’ he countered angrily. ‘Their threats do not…’

‘Treville wrote a letter – it must have more charges against you. A man has threatened to use it – if the Queen saw it now…’

‘Who has this letter?’ he raged, ‘who dared to approach you with it?’ He gripped her arms more tightly, ‘I am not leaving you Sophia – I will never…’

‘Would you have me dragged to watch them put your head on the block?’ she cried out, beating her fists furiously against his chest. ‘Suzanne too?’  
He stared at her. What had they said to her? Fury filled him. He clenched his hands and thought of squeezing D’Artagnans’ throat. Damn these Musketeers!

‘Lucien – you have not told me everything!’

‘I don’t know…’

‘Oh yes you do!’ she shoved him hard, ‘you know what you have conveniently not told me. You are leaving Paris. Go to Marseille – you said you had business there. Go!’

‘I will not go now – you are too distraught! There are arrangements…’

‘No!’ she countered, ‘I will handle anything that is needed. _You are leaving!_ ’ They stared at each other.

‘Where is the rest of the powder?’ she asked abruptly. He drew in his breath shaking his head, ‘no – you cannot use that.’

‘I will use it if I have to –if they catch up with you. I will negotiate with it,’ she would try anything, everything to keep him from the executioner’s sword.

‘They will not agree to that…’

‘Then I will blow them to hell and hope the rest burns!’ she stormed. He clasped her to him, ‘no, no my love. You cannot do it,’ he soothed her with his voice and strong embrace. He tried another tack.

‘I will leave the house – I can stay elsewhere - you know they won’t find me if I….’ 

‘No - no,’ she pleaded, ‘they will not stop looking, they could offer money – plenty of money – they want you badly.’

He dropped into a chair leaning his forearms on his knees and dropped his face into his hands, raking his fingers through his hair. She knelt in front of him.

‘Please,’ she whispered. He put his arms around her and pulled her into his lap. He held her against him. Her body felt frail and heated as though feverish. A shudder rolled through her. He tightened his arms. How in heaven’s name could he leave her now? She whimpered and he closed his eyes. He kissed her damp cheek.

‘Tomorrow’

>

He held her nestled against him, his fingers gently tracing her cheek, along the bowed bone that marked her sloping shoulder, moving his palm down her side and over the gentle indented curve of her waist and flare of her hip, sweetly rounded bottom and slender thigh to her dimpled knee drawn up and bent. He repeated these movements as though searing her shape into his memory – although that was hardly needed. If he were blinded he would know her by the feel of her body, the strong line of her jaw and firm chin, the tiny imperfection in her nose. 

She was sleeping and he had not awakened her – although he wanted to wake her, roll her to her back under him and lose himself in her encompassing warmth. She would wrap her arms around him, warm lips on his skin, stroking his shoulders and down the length of his back, hooking her strong slender legs over his hips whispering his name, surrendering to him. How long before he would be here again? 

What awaited him? He did not know what he was looking for- although now he knew who he was seeking. He could not see the pattern, but he knew it was there – a few more pieces needed, and the puzzle would assemble itself.

But the daughter he had searched for was gone - forever. Sophia’s torment would continue. It would get better with time, but there would always be a reminder of a tiny babe. Memories would rise again to toss his beloved girl about in a cruel storm of loss and guilt.

To punish him, they had punished her – and succeeded. To watch her suffer for his misdeeds was the worst of torments for him. A father should keep his children safe from harm. A husband should shield and defend his wife. He had not been able to protect his own child or the woman he loved. 

He had failed them both.


	83. "...And All The Devils are Here"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dangerous foe, besides Chevreuse and de Wardes, knows that Athos is in Paris.  
> M. de Wardes makes a clever move.  
> M. de Comminges discovers an unexpected ally with an invaluable offer.  
> Athos makes a mistake. Could it turn deadly?  
> D' Artagnan faces a serious threat.  
> The Garrison is under siege.

**Author: Mordaunt**

_Hell is Empty and All The Devils Are Here…  
_ _(William Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act 1, Scene 1: 215-217)_

Rejection is not something M. de Renard knows much about. He has never thought it possible that he might be wanting in anything, let alone, as a lover. His mother always praised his beauty and prowess with women, how they are fortunate that he stoops to acknowledge them. How he is a rare gift. His mother had always chosen his women for him. That was until M. de Wardes wove the tale of his cousin, Madame de Chevreuse. “The most desirable woman in France,” he called her. It was an understatement. There was an intoxicating quality in her presence that made M. de Renard her slave the moment he gazed upon her in the salon where they were first introduced: how she carried her fan when she walked, the delicate curve of her wrist, the way her golden curls tumbled in thick tresses caressing her long pale neck, the roundness of her heaving bosom after their first dance. And then, to be chosen to share her bed! To feel the softness of her breasts against his body, and the curve of her hip in his hand, her voice softly whispering his name. His siren, he called her in his mind.

Rejection is not something M. de Renard will accept. Yet, there she was, his siren, her delicate hand holding a glass of wine as she leaned back against the bed post, the light silk of her robe barely concealing her alluring beauty, a flash of ridicule in her blue gaze, and a hue of derision in her melodious voice. He imagined his hand firmly around her small neck, pinning her on that bed, showing her that he was indeed the man she claimed he wasn’t. He surrendered to her overpowering scorn too quickly, he thinks. He bowed his head and allowed to be shoved through a side door and into the street. Another fool, used and discarded for her momentary entertainment. How he hates her for her cruelty; how he longs for her although she is cruel: his siren.

He has no doubt she speaks of him with derision, if she speaks of him at all. He has no doubt she has shared her scorn with her cousin, M. de Wardes, whose approval M. de Renard covets, for he has few means of introduction in Parisian society. Can he forgo this alliance now? His mother’s message announced that he was chosen among the gentlemen in His Majesty’s retinue to accompany the King in his progress to Orléans. “Your ascension and my revenge are beginning,” his mother assured him. Can he forgo his alliance with de Wardes on the basis of a slight nod from a King who barely knows his name? Can he forgo his alliance with de Wardes knowing that he has failed the Queen, in his eagerness to move de Wardes’ plan along faster? Can he forgo his alliance with de Wardes, knowing all he knows about that plan? At any other time of his life M. de Renard would calculate all contingencies before any action. At any other time of his life M. de Renard would seek his mother’s advice. But he finds he can do neither and the reason is Chevreuse, his siren, whose very name makes him seethe with rage and burn with lust. How can he admit such weakness this to his mother? He can barely admit it to himself.

It is a blind obsession that consumed M. de Renard since the evening Madame de Chevreuse evicted him unceremoniously from her bed. Since that night he feels like a madman. He can barely sleep or eat. He cares little for the comings and goings at court, or his mother’s incessant plotting as she paces about in her rooms planning one move or other. He can hear nothing except Madame de Chevreuse’s disdain. He can see nothing but the ridicule in her eyes. He lingers outside her house at the Marais hidden in the shadows of a dark alley. He must know where she goes, whom she meets. He must know everything.

She was in her carriage the next day. It was not hard to follow on foot, for there was an accident at the Rue St. Denis and all carriages were stalled. He saw her opening the door and jumping out suddenly. He loved that about her: how daring she could be on a whim. She walked slowly towards the Rue des Lombards, and he followed her at some distance. She entered an old crumbling house. He crossed the street and prowled hidden behind a stack of old decrepit crates. He thought he would just wait but his mind started to race again: what if she was meeting a lover? The house looked like a hideout for such an illicit meeting. What kind of man would she find worth as a lover? What kind of man could ever be better than him? Stealthily he approached the front of the house, which looked like a small bakery, and peered in through the foggy windows.

She was not alone indeed. Besides an old woman, who looked like the shop owner, there was another man standing with his back to the window. M. de Renard would know this man without even looking at his face. He knew his bearing and posture. He even knew his size and weight. He had carried him drugged and unconscious upstairs to his apartments just a fortnight earlier. The pretender: de Bragelonne!

M. de Renard, could not believe his eyes. Could he have been rejected by Chevreuse for the likes of de Bragelonne, the man who also threatened his birthright title? Rage darkened M. de Renard’s vision, and he placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword. He could think of nothing else but piercing the son of that murderous whore and her treasonous husband, Athos de la Fére. When M. de Renard could see clearly again, de Bragelonne was no longer standing by the window and Madame de Chevreuse had retreated further into the shop. Was she speaking privately to de Bragelonne, her lover, M. de Renard wondered? He could see the outline of her interlocutor but not his face. He looked taller than de Bragelonne. Another man, M. de Renard realized! She touched the man playfully with her ungloved hand, and M. de Renard shuddered. Why couldn’t he simply storm into this decrepit little place and claim all their lives to appease his rage for this betrayal? It occurred to him suddenly that he was standing in the middle of a busy street at midday, clutching the hilt of his sword, contemplating how to commit murder. What would happen to his titles? To his mother’s life ambitions? He retreated slowly managing not to run into any of the passers-by, who hurried along the street, and lowered his hat in case he might be recognized. But he did not leave. He couldn’t. His anger burned like a fresh wound right through his heart, and he was eager to feed it. So, he kept himself concealed across the street behind the stack of empty crates. “Like some beaten dog,” he told himself. But he had to see if Chevreuse would leave with these two men. He had to find out who the second man was, the one she touched, the one she was trying to seduce.

He did not have to wait long. The door creaked open and de Bragelonne walked into the street, his hat lowered hiding his face. The second man followed: tall, statuesque, and much older. Although his large feathered hat also concealed most of his features, the resemblance with de Bragelonne was uncanny. M. de Renard knew immediately who this man was, although he had only heard his name and never met him in person. He knew the face of his rival: Athos de la Fére.

M. de Renard did not wait for her to leave, nor followed the two men. Instead, he hurried towards the Rue St. Paul where he knew he would find those who could assist him. He had to act immediately. He could no longer wait for de Wardes’ clever schemes and intrigues. He had to make Athos de la Fére disappear for good.

\-------

“M. de Comminges, a word!” M. de Wardes exclaims. He walks slowly, deliberately, trying to feign disinterest although he is eager to catch up with Her Majesty’s Lieutenant of the Guards, who hurries behind the Queen and her retinue towards the hall with all the paintings by the great masters.

M. de Comminges slows down annoyed. Still, he bows courteously, acknowledging M. de Wardes. He tries to sound apologetic. “Your Grace, I fear I must hurry.”

“What for?” M. de Wardes shrugs as he approaches. “Is the Lieutenant of the Guards necessary to Her Majesty for an audience with the Duchesse d’ Aiguillon?”

M. de Comminges, checks himself. “No, of course not, the Duchess is a lady of impeccable reputation.” The truth is that M. de Comminges is neither required nor important but his plan is to make himself as visible as possible to the Queen. Besides, he cannot resist the temptation to place himself right in front of Lucien Grimaud’s wife and daughter, a reminder that no matter how illustrious their companion, the Duchesse d’ Aiguillon, they are not safe even when under her protection.

“Of course, there is the issue of that fine Duchess de la Croix,” de Wardes smirks giving voice to de Comminges’ thoughts. “Your concern for her Majesty’s safety is beyond reproach, Monsieur!”

“My thoughts exactly, Your Grace!” M. de Comminges intones. He knows M. de Wardes to be an aloof man, who never, until now, took any interest in his reputation as Lieutenant of the Queen’s Guards, let alone in anything concerning Lucien Grimaud. “That woman and her daughter appearing before Her Majesty is an abomination…”

M. de Wardes inhales narrowing his eyes with disdain. “Like you, dear M. de Comminges, I am gravely concerned. Her Majesty’s kindness and condescension for the family of Lucien Grimaud, raises concerns about Her safety and well-being, and compromises Her irreparably…”

M. de Comminges nods eagerly. Finally, he thinks, I found someone else in court who shares my views and speaks them in the open. “I am honored, Your Grace,” he asserts, “for I think exactly as you do. That woman and her daughter should be in the Bastille, and her husband should be on a scaffold facing the executioner.”

“I agree when it comes to the husband,” M. de Wardes remarks. “But the lady is still the daughter of the Duke de la Croix. As for the daughter…”

“She is a lovely little peach…” M. de Comminges intimates with a wink.

“I suppose,” M. de Wardes shrugs with great indifference. “I find her parentage too vulgar for my taste, and her interest in art entirely uncouth…”

“Oh, yes indeed!” M. de Comminges hurries to reply, ready to agree with such an illustrious and unexpected ally. “Your Grace is knowledgeable in such delicate matters, whereas I am but a soldier!”

“A loyal soldier nevertheless!” M. de Wardes declares. “Your loyalty and courage are well known in my family, Monsieur, for you served under my cousin M. Marcheaux…”

M. de Wardes steps back, gasping with surprise. “M. Marchaeux! Oh, Your Grace… Not a day passes that I do not remember that great man and the Red Guards, our regiment…”

“I weep along with you,” M. de Wardes intones sounding distraught, “for my beloved Estienne, who was taken from us so soon…”

“His killers roam free, Your Grace! Some of them in this very palace!” M. de Wardes whispers, unable now to suppress his wrath.

M. de Wardes places his arm around M. de Comminge’s shoulder, feigning great familiarity. “Hush, my friend,” he cautions. “For even the walls here have ears and we live in dangerous times!” M. de Comminges lowers his head embarrassed for his momentary lapse in good judgement. “But don’t despair,” M. de Wardes continues in the same amicable tone, “for you and I seem to have many common interests.”

“Indeed, Your Grace!” M. de Comminges looks up now, smiling, his eyes glowing with anticipation and pride. A man like de Wardes calling him a friend! An ally even! 

“How about you visit me at my house at the Luxembourg this afternoon M. de Comminges?” M. de Wardes continues. “I believe you and I may have a great deal more in common.”

M. de Comminges stares at him blankly. “A private audience, Your Grace…? Why?”

A faint sneer passes through de Wardes’ pale features, but M. de Comminges is too bewildered to notice. “Because, my friend,” M. de Wardes replies his arm still around M. de Comminges’ shoulder, “I may be able to deliver to you one of the men, who took our beloved Estienne away from us! I understand such a development might please Her Majesty exceedingly!” M. de Comminges pulls himself away from M. de Wardes’ embrace stunned and speechless. “I will do anything to avenge my beloved Estienne,” M. de Wardes continues, his voice trembling, as if to conceal his emotion.

M. de Comminges stands straight, bowing his head with great respect. “I will be there, Your Grace!” he declares.

“Then I expect to see you, M. de Comminges!” M. de Wardes motions to leave but stops as if he recalls something else. “I will have a small favor to ask of you in return, M. de Comminges. A mere trifle, really…Something about a letter…” he adds.

“Anything, Your Grace!” M. de Comminges replies standing straight, hat in hand, acknowledging the great man, who just declared himself his ally and friend.

\----

Athos paces in the room next to d’ Artagnan’s office, greatly distressed. He had not expected to see her like this: Sophia, storming into the Garrison. From the other side of the door he can hear muffled voices. She is enraged. He can think of many reasons why she would be so upset, some from the recent past, others from a past long ago. He feels compelled to open the door and step in. Try to speak to her as a friend, try to appease her fears. But what could he possibly say? That he understands? He does not. He will not. Her husband almost killed Raoul. In his rage he spewed all sorts of lies and half-truths about Alessandra. Athos thinks of Alessandra weeping in his arms after she received Grimaud’s letter; of the anguish and pain this man caused her at the time she was most vulnerable. Is this honesty and friendship, Athos wonders, or just brazen cruelty? This feels more like Grimaud’s calculated retaliation against him: to abuse Alessandra, his most willing victim, in the name of some tentative friendship. Athos cannot shirk the memory of his wife’s tears and her grief. He cannot forgive the attack against their son. He cannot pretend to overlook Grimaud’s assault against all those he loves most dearly, just for the sake of Grimaud’s wife.

Still, he wishes he could open that door. He wishes there was a way to sit next to his old friend, hold her hand, ask her about her children, and assure her that all will be fine, and that she should not be fearful.  It would be a lie of course. She should be fearful. Her husband plays dangerous games, recklessly sporting with danger, for no obvious purpose. He provokes because he can and because he feels likes it.

“Don’t you dare speak to me of Athos or Treville!” Sophia exclaims from the other side of the door. “They took my daughter, and now she is dead!”

Athos would have liked to step through that door: “I did not take your daughter,” he would have liked to say. “I did not know you had a daughter.” But then, had he known would he have left that child stranded between a dying mother and a criminal for a father? He knows well he would have done exactly what M. de Treville did.

“I don’t think you should step into that office, Athos,” Constance speaks quietly, entering the room from a smaller back door. She smiles but there is sadness in her smile. Athos can see tears glistening in her amber eyes.

“I wish I could…” he ventures.  

“She is scared,” Constance whispers. “And she is angry… with all of us…”

“I cannot imagine anyone being angry with you, Constance.” Athos speaks softly taking her hands into his. He notices tears on her pale cheeks and wipes them with his fingers kissing her forehead. “No need for tears,” he says tenderly.

She exhales, trying to pull herself together. “I am being foolish, I know. But I cannot help thinking about Sophia and that poor child. Not the little actress, Athos. That was not Sophia’s daughter. Of that I have no doubt. Whoever that poor child really is, I fear she is lost forever. Charles knows everything… and I have no intention to keep any secrets… so I must tell you too: I went along searching for that girl…”

“Went along with… Grimaud?” Athos is aghast.

“Yes, with _Lucien_ ” she declares resolutely, stressing his first name. “He was as desperate as Sophia is now behind this door. I went along and we both saw with our own eyes the kind of cruelty his daughter would endure in the arms of some of our best well-meaning, philanthropic institutions. I witnessed his anguish having to weigh that realization against the other, horrifying alternative which seems to be what really happened to that little girl: that she found herself all alone in the streets. I do not need to tell you more about that, Athos. We all know what happens to little girls who are left all alone in the streets…”

Bianca, Athos realizes, suddenly overcome with horror. It could have been Bianca. What would he have done in Grimaud’s place, if this was his precious little daughter?

“So, you see,” Constance continues gently. “Sophia has every right to be angry; Lucien too…”

“He tried to kill my son, Constance,” Athos insists. His tone is quiet now, and he lowers his gaze. “He said terrible things to Raoul about Anne, about us. His letter to Anne devasted her when she was still very sick…” Athos’ voice breaks as if he is unable to continue. Constance raises her hand, softly brushing a long lock of hair that masks his face. He looks up and she kisses his brow. “Do not go through that door, Athos!” she whispers. “You will accomplish nothing. Let this be. Let her be.”

“She knows I am here, Constance,” Athos replies.

\----

The message arrives a few hours later.  

> _“I must see you,”_ it says, “ _I have nothing to offer you in exchange for such a meeting. No secrets to reveal or intrigues to help you resolve. I am but a poor exile, like yourself, and I only seek solace in the knowledge that I am no longer alone in this city, which feels foreign to me. I will wait for you after vespers at St. Germain l’Auxerrois. Please say you will see me. For the sake of the old friendship we once shared,”_
> 
> _Marie Aim_ _é_ _e de Rohan, Duchess de Chevreuse”_  

Athos understands that to accept the invitation is a mistake. He throws the message into the hot embers of the fireplace and watches it burn to ashes, pushing it out of his mind. There is much to think about: M. de Rohan was injured after an attack by brigands at the wharf near the St. Paul Gate. Lucien Grimaud intervened to save him, which to Athos’ mind means that somehow the man was involved even if, in the end, he appeared to do the right thing. Raoul looks troubled and concerned. Athos knows his son enough to be able to tell this is not only about his injured friend. Still, when the church bells chime for vespers Athos finds it impossible not to think of her waiting.

His mind goes back to Alessandra long ago: “ _I will wait for you,”_ she had written in her letter, “ _although I know you will not come_.” How long Alessandra waited for him on the bridge leading to the border Athos does not know, and has never asked. He knows now it was a mistake that he can never redeem, alongside many other terrible mistakes. He walks to the fireplace where the letter of another woman has just turned to ashes. Alessandra is all he can think about. How he misses the sound of her voice, her emerald gaze that reaches into his soul, the warm softness of her body next to his, her touch on his skin. That most of all.

He stands before the fireplace where the letter of another woman has just turned into ashes as the bells chime for vespers. She is waiting, he thinks…

 -----

“I did not expect you to come,” Madame de Chevreuse whispers. Athos can see her breath as she speaks, a thin cloud of vapor disappearing in the cold damp air. The church is emptying, vespers having ended. He sits next to her on the creaking pew. “I did not think I would come,” he replies quietly. He does not turn to look at her, as if to do so would cast some sort of incurable spell. But he can feel the warmth of her cloaked body next to his, and can hear her breath in the vastness of the empty church, his fingers barely touching hers as he rests his hand on the cold wooden surface of the pew. “I am glad you came,” she says, after a while. She moves her hand slightly closer and he allows her to touch him. “I think it is time to go,” he observes, still resolved not to turn his eyes towards her. She covers his hand with hers now, as if to dare him, and he welcomes the feel of her skin against his. “Will you not even look at me?” she teases. He can hear the old mischievous playfulness in her voice that used to unnerve him when they were both young in Louis’ court. He lowers his eyes. “I don’t think I should,” he replies quietly. Still, he takes her hand into his, and brings it to his lips. “It is time to go,” he repeats standing up.

When they walk out of the church it is already dark, a moonless sky above and a cold wind blowing from the river. “My carriage is behind the church,” she says leading him to the Rue de l’ Arbre Sec. They hear footsteps following them and hurry along towards the corner of the building. More footsteps now seem to walk towards them from the opposite direction. Athos draws his sword and pushes her behind him, shielding her with his body. In the dark he can see a group of four men approaching, their swords drawn.

“We have no dealings with the lady,” declares the one who walks ahead of the other three. “Just with you!”

“Run to your carriage!” Athos urges her. He can see his attackers more clearly now. They are definitely not de Comminges’ men, but they also do not look like thieves. Thieves do not carry such excellent swords Athos notices, nor wear steel knives in their belts. These men are something entirely different…

“Run!” he insists, pushing her further back. “I cannot leave you like this!” she cries. “Then we will both perish,” he retorts, preparing to fight. 

“The lady has some nerve!” the leader of the gang sniggers. Athos can see his face clearly now, gaunt, eyes sunk deep in their sockets, his skin pockmarked and pale. “Kill him!” he orders his men. “Let’s see if you are as good as they say you are, M. de la Fére!” The man smiles a menacing large smile that reveals a set of shimmering gold teeth.

\----

“Captain!” M. Marchal yells storming into d’ Artagnan’s office without knocking.

“What the hell…” d’ Artagnan exclaims looking up from his desk exasperated.

“Captain there is no time!” M. Marchal’s voice is harsh. He is breathless, panting. “Comminges and his men are at the gate, Captain!” he says. “They are threatening to storm the Garrison. He claims you are traitor harboring the Comte de la Fére, an enemy of France. He says he is here to arrest you! M. de Thierry holds the gate with a few of our men. They are the only thing between Comminges and you, Captain…”

D’ Artagnan springs to his feet. He expected this to happen one day. Just not so soon. “Have all the men ready to fight M. Marchal!” he orders, grabbing his pistols and his sword.


	84. Musketeer Rules, Pirate Tactics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a perilous night unfolds Athos discovers danger lurks in unexpected places, d' Artagnan makes a difficult decision, and two Musketeers decide not to play by the rules...

**Author: Mordaunt**

_"Moquons-nous de cette fumée  
_ _Qu’on appelle la Renommée"_

_(De Charles De Vion Dalibray, 1600-1653, Cher Ami) (1)_

Lighting jags across the night sky and flashes through the window of d’ Artagnan’s office, the ensuing thunder mixing with the roar of angry voices and the clanging of swords rising from the gate.

“You must not join the men at the gate, Captain.” M. Marchal stops d’ Artagnan on his way to the door placing his hand on his Captain’s chest. It is a bold move. It is an audacious proposition.

“What are you talking about Marchal?” d’ Artagnan snarls. He pushes back the young man and moves towards the door, but M. Marchal insists, blocking his way.

“Please, Captain. Listen to me!” His voice is quiet but his tone denotes great urgency. “M. de Thierry, asked me to tell you this. He thinks it’s best if you let us handle de Comminges, and I agree. De Comminges is here on his own. He has no proof. He has no orders. Instead of dealing with him, you must go to the Palace immediately and talk to the Prime Minister and Her Majesty.”

D’ Artagnan is about to protest. “He is right, Charles!” Constance interjects. She hurries into the office from the side door rocking Alexandre, who is wailing, terrified by the thunderstorm and the angry voices echoing from outside. She is followed by Raoul and M. de Rohan, who carries his unsheathed sword despite the fact that he is clearly in pain, walking with great difficulty. “Please listen to him!” Constance insists trying to soothe the terrified baby.

“Captain,” Raoul also chimes in. “You must speak to Her Majesty. Your version of events must reach her before de Comminges has time to tell her his story! You must go the Palace immediately!”

“This is madness!” D’ Artagnan exclaims. “I will not leave my wife and son here! I will not abandon my men! I took an oath since our Garrison was stormed by the Red Guards twelve years ago, never to let this happen again!”

“It will not happen, Captain!” M. Marchal’s certainty is surprising under the circumstances d’ Artagnan thinks. “Just give the order to the men to defend the Garrison, and leave the rest to us.”

 “I will not allow my men to take responsibility for fighting the Queen’s Guards. If such a thing happens, it happens under my command,” he growls.

“M. de Thierry suggested that about twenty men should exit the Garrison quietly from the secret door at the stable. In this thunderstorm no one will notice.” M. Marchal ventures, ignoring his Captain’s protestations. The young Musketeer still stands with his back against the door, making sure his Captain does not do anything rash.

“Brilliant idea!” M. de Rohan exclaims. "I think I know what M. de Thierry is thinking! Captain, we can surround them at the street where they are waiting now!” 

D’ Artagan pauses for a moment. He too can slowly see where this plan is going. “And then what?”

“Then we delay de Comminges by pretending to negotiate,” M. Marchal says.

“He will demand to see me,” d’ Artagnan remarks, still not exactly sure how this plan can play out.

“But he will not,” M. Marchal says with a glimmer in his eyes. “You are his superior officer, Captain. He is outside the Garrison without any orders, making all sorts of accusations against his superior officer!”

“Then he will demand to meet with my deputy, M. de Rohan…” d’ Artagnan ponders, still baffled.

"If I may," Raoul interjects treading carefully. “I understand what M. Marchal and M. de Thierry are proposing. I think – forgive me M. de Rohan—that you should not be the one to negotiate with de Comminges either. You are the second in command. Show de Comminges the contempt he deserves for turning against his superior officer. Don’t give the man or his accusations any credence at all. M. de Rohan, you have the excuse that you are injured after all…”

M. de Rohan nods in agreement. “But will de Comminges not be offended?” Constance observes. She keeps rocking Alexandre in her arms and kisses his puffy red face, trying to calm him down, her hand smoothing his lace cap and his few black little curls.

“Yes, Madame d’ Artagnan!” Raoul asserts. “He will be offended. That is the point.”

“It’s a good place to begin a negotiation.” D’ Artagnan muses, pacing in the room, rubbing his chin. He stops and turns to Raoul. “Where is your father?”

“He is not here, Captain,” Raoul says. “I do not know where he is.”

“I ordered you to be with him at all times!” D’ Artagnan’s voice is harsh.

Raoul lowers his eyes. “My father makes decisions for himself and does not always share them, Captain.”

D’ Artagnan understands what Raoul is trying to say. He understands that to hold Raoul responsible for his father’s decisions is utterly unfair. He clenches his jaw. “Perhaps it is for the best that he is not here,” he replies after a brief pause. He begins to pace in the room again, uneasy. “What about Constance and Alexandre?” 

“We will hide in the crypt under our quarters,” Constance proposes. “No one knows that place.”

“I will stay down there with her, Captain!” M. de Rohan proposes. 

“We will protect them Captain, if it comes to that,” M. Marchal proclaims. “But it will not. M. de Thierry and I will make sure it doesn’t. You must go to the Palace immediately. We will delay de Comminges here in your office, until you return. I have already asked one of the recruits to have a horse ready for you in the stables. No one knows there is a secret exit on that side, and if I may, de Comminges and his men are not astute enough to find out.”

“Let’s hope so, M. Marchal!” D’ Artagnan puts on his cloak, grabs his gloves and his hat, and walks up to Constance. “All will be well,” he declares kissing her. He sounds confident, but she can hear his voice quiver. “I know!” she declares, mirroring his tone. He moves away for a moment but turns back, taking hold of her, and kisses her again, Alexandre too, who squirms annoyed to be squeezed in his father’s embrace. “I cannot bear to leave you,” he whispers, and she pushes him away barely able to hold back her tears. “Go!” she urges him. He disappears through the door. She can hear his voice in the courtyard giving orders to his men, and then…nothing, only the voices of the men at the gate.

 ----

M. de Comminges keeps his sword drawn and so does M. de Thierry. They are both drenched, standing face to face in the pouring rain, but neither of them backs down. “I am arresting your Captain!” de Comminges snarls. “For the last time, order your men to lower their swords!”

“On whose orders?” M. de Thierry demands. He keeps his voice quiet and his demeanor aloof, knowing that nothing exasperates de Comminges more than to have his commands challenged by a Musketeer.

“Her Majesty’s!” de Comminges declares, trying to make himself sound important.

“Show me your order,” M. de Thierry counters.

“I will do nothing of the sort!” the Lieutenant of the Queen’s Guards growls. 

“Then we will have to resolve this right here,” M. de Thierry shrugs, preparing his sword. “My men, against yours.”

“It’s just five of you, and twenty of us,” de Comminges snorts tilting his head towards de Thierry and his men guarding the gate. “You cannot protect this Garrison! It will not be the first time you Musketeers were caught unprepared and failed to protect your Garrison either!” He laughs turning back to his men to order the attack, but he pauses aghast. Another lighting flashes in the dark, revealing that from side to side the empty street behind him and his men is now lined with Musketeers. All armed. All ready to attack. He and his men are surrounded.  

“You were saying?” M. Marchal moves through the line of Musketeers and walks up to de Comminges and de Thierry at the gate.

"You think you are too clever, don’t you?” de Comminges barks. “Do you think we are threatened by this kind of horseplay? We will fight, here in the street if necessary! I will arrest that traitor, your Captain, and that other traitor he harbors behind this gate!”

“By all means try!” M. Marchal invites him drawing his sword.

“Messieurs!” M. de Thierry interjects. He keeps his tone smooth and calm. “Let us discuss this like civilized men first, shall we? We seem to have reached an impasse. You are a very ambitious man, M. de Comminges. I know this but my friend M. Marchal finds such ambition perplexing. After all everyone’s purpose here is their Majesties’ safety. I suspect Her Majesty will not be pleased to learn that her Guards and the King’s Musketeers are fighting in the streets like Frondeurs!”

De Comminges stands back at the word “Frondeur.” The mere thought that he might be seen by Her Majesty as acting like one of those agitators, who fight in the streets like uncaged animals is abhorrent to him. He appreciates M. de Thierry’s subtlety. Of all the Musketeer scum, M. de Thierry is the one M. de Comminges prefers the most. He has considered making him his second in command when he finally becomes Captain of the Musketeer regiment, after he removes the traitor, d’ Artagnan.

“It is very simple,” M. de Thierry continues, noticing the effect his words have on de Comminges. “You demand to arrest our Captain. We demand to see your orders. You refuse. We can solve this like civilized men.” 

“What do you propose?” de Comminges inquires, perplexed. Perhaps he has an ally, he thinks. Perhaps this matter could be solved easier than he imagined.

\-----------

Athos’ sword pierces through flesh. His opponent gasps, blood pouring out of his mouth the moment Athos pulls out the blade. The man collapses onto the ground in a puddle of mud and blood convulsing next to his two dead comrades. Athos looks around. There was a fourth man: gaunt, pockmarked, with gold teeth.

“You are as good as they say, M. de la Fére,” a nasal, sneering voice echoes from somewhere behind him, muffled by thunder and pouring rain. A storm, Athos suddenly realizes. He had not noticed. Another voice echoes too, faint and whimpering: her voice. It is impossible to tell where she is in the pitch-black night and the downpour. She chose to stay. “Marie!” he calls out her name. A bolt of lighting shutters the darkness, and Athos sees them both: the man with the gold teeth retreating towards the church, his arm locked around her waist, holding his steel knife to her pale neck. “One more step, Comte, and your lovely companion is dead,” he threatens. He sounds tentative and it is strange, Athos thinks. The man is not a common thug. This is the kind of thug who would have slit her throat already. Why hasn’t he?

“Let her go,” Athos demands, moving towards them. “It is me you are after, not her!” She looks terrified, frozen, unable to move. If only she remains like this for another second, Athos reckons.

“Or what?” the brigand sniggers.

“Or this,” Athos whispers. Faster than thought he pulls out his pistol and shoots in the dark aiming for the man’s head. It is a very close aim but Athos has tried it before. The brigand falls back, and she screams running forward, into Athos’ arms. “Are you injured, Madame?” She signals that she is not but he can feel that she is trembling, and she collapses in his arms gasping for air. “Is he dead?” she repeats, between her tears.

Athos holds her close and looks around, expecting to see a fourth body where the man fell. But he can see nothing at all. “We need to leave now,” he urges her, “can you walk?” She nods and pulls herself up unsteadily. This will not do, Athos thinks. If that fourth man is injured and not dead they are still not safe. He lifts her up in his arms. “I am taking you to your carriage,” he declares.

 ----

He sets her onto the carriage seat and closes the door. “Move quickly!” he orders the coachman. He makes sure her head rests comfortably against the back pillow, and smooths her wet hair off her face. He is not sure if she is injured or if she has just fainted but he can see that she cannot breathe. He pulls out his poniard and rips the straps of her tight silk bodice, hoping it might help. “Marie, open our eyes!” he repeats, cupping her pale face in his hands, with little effect. He fumbles with her clothes more, loosening the bodice and reaching her thin silk shift underneath. He can feel the warmth of her body in his hands, the curve of her shoulders, the roundness of her breasts, her breathing that is still labored… He realizes suddenly that her hands have slipped around his waist, under his shirt that is drenched by water and blood. Her bright blue eyes are open now, fixed into his, deep, warm, and inviting. Her fingers travel gently along his spine and around his shoulders, reaching for his chest. He pulls her closer, his heart racing, his mind suddenly blank. She reaches for his lips. He trembles feeling her quivering breath so close to his skin. “Kiss me,” she whispers, but suddenly her voice sounds strange, alien, terrifying. He pushes her back and collapses onto the floor of the moving carriage, panting. “Stop this!” he demands, although it sounds more like a plea.

She sits up on the seat, her blue eyes fixed on him. “Are you afraid of me?” She smiles, and it is soulless smile, Athos realizes.

“Did you plan all this?” He desperately tries to collect his thoughts.

“No,” she shrugs, tilting her head with great interest, like a cat observing her prey. “But I wish I had!” She laughs, and it makes him cringe. “It was thrilling!”

He sits up and pulls the check-string: “Stop here!” he calls to the coachman. She stops him before he jumps out of the carriage door. “Will you not come home with me?” Her voice is playful, her eyes full of mischief.

“No, Madame!” he declares sternly. “That, I will never do.”

\----

The carriage leaves him at the Rue St. Honoré, not very far from the Garrison. He walks stealthily, his sword drawn, wondering if he is followed; if she has him followed. He is grateful for the thunderstorm. He welcomes the rain on his skin, washing away the memory of what transpired. He hopes it can be completely erased. He wants to forget it ever happened. He turns the corner towards the Louvre but stops at the sight of two small armies in front of the Garrison gate: a line of Musketeers facing a group of Guards. He has no doubt the Guards are here to arrest him. He cares little for that. His son and his friends are all he can think about. He must get inside, he thinks. Somehow, he must get back inside the Garrison to help, surrender if necessary, but not before putting up a fight with the rest of them. There is a secret door through the stables, if he can reach it…

\---

“Who goes there?” a man demands from somewhere in the darkness of the stable, and his intent is clear. Athos feels the cold steel of a blade touching his neck.

“A friend…” he ventures.

“Father?” the man whispers lowering the sword.

“Raoul?” The young man walks from the deep recesses of the stable, sword in hand.

“What is happening?” Athos exclaims.

“Comminges is here to arrest the Captain for treason. He is looking for you also.” Raoul explains. “You look as if you too had an interesting night, father,” he remarks with a smile.

“Not half as interesting as this,” Athos retorts. “Tell more about all that happened here Raoul…”

\----

“So, de Thierry and Marchal have taken it upon themselves to deal with de Comminges?” Athos sounds appalled. “De Comminges is no fool. He is devious and dangerous!” he exclaims. “It is a mistake to underestimate him! It is an even worse idea to provoke him.”

“We have to stall, father,” Raoul insists. “Give the Captain enough time to speak to Her Majesty!”

“I have a letter,” Athos says, “from the Prime Minister. It proves that the man staying in this Garrison is an English lord visiting in secret on behalf of King Charles.”

“Perhaps we can get this to M. de Thierry and M. Marchal!” Raoul exclaims. “Their plan is to get de Comminges to negotiate away from his men, in the Captain’s office. Delay him there long enough to give the Captain time…”

“There is a small anteroom next to that office,” Athos says. “We should enter through there and leave the letter on d’ Artagnan’s desk before anyone else goes into that office.” 

The little anteroom is completely dark when they enter, the curtains of the single window that is the only source of light, drawn. Only a sliver of light slips in, underneath the door that connects this small room with d’ Artagnan’s office. There is movement in the office. Athos and Raoul can hear voices speaking. They are too late. Raoul draws his sword and so does Athos. They may be late but if their comrades need help facing de Comminges, they are here to provide it.

\----

M. de Thierry takes the seat behind Captain d’ Artagnan’s office, and M. Marchal closes the door. “Please sit, M. de Comminges!” de Thierry invites the Lieutenant of the Guards. “First we would appreciate if you removed your weapons,” he proposes. “This is after all a civilized meeting among likeminded men trying to find an amicable solution to a momentary impasse. As you can see both M. Marchal and I are unarmed.” He stands up removing his sword and leaves it on the Captain’s table. M. Marchal does the same, while a very reluctant de Comminges removes his pistols, but keeps his sword sheathed at his side.

“I do not follow,” de Comminges sounds perplexed looking around. “What kind of travesty is this? I am not negotiating with the two of you! You are soldiers! Where is your Captain? Is he that much of a coward? Where is his deputy, M. de Rohan?” he adds dismissively.

 M. de Thierry shakes his head. “Let’s avoid such offensive language, dear M. de Comminges. I understand your frustration, but I fear there is no one else here for you. Our Captain is a very busy man. He cannot be expected to meet with everyone who demands to see him in the middle of the night. Besides, coming to arrest him would make such an encounter….”

“Awkward?” M. Marchal intones.

“Awkward indeed! Thank you, M. Marchal!” M. de Thierry remarks approvingly. “And then poor M. de Rohan is injured, which means that I am the next superior officer in line, and M. Marchal here is my most trusted second.

“This is ridiculous!” de Comminges interrupts him, attempting to stand up but M. Marchal pushes him down placing an iron hand on his shoulder.

“Tsk…tsk…tsk…” M. de Thierry nods his head disapprovingly. “I thought we were on good terms, dear M. de Comminges. My friend M. Marchal… he does not appreciate being underestimated in this manner. He could become offended. He is a very sensitive man…”

“Very sensitive!” M. Marchal underscores his friend’s words, his iron hand still clasped on the shoulder of M. de Comminges, who looks increasingly uneasy.

“So,” M. de Thierry begins, leaning forward over the table, his demeanor affable and polite. “Let us see your order from Her Majesty with all the accusations against our Captain including the name of the person you claim is hiding here.”

“I refuse to speak to you!” M. de Comminges declares crossing his hands in front of his chest. 

“This is very serious indeed,” M. de Thierry retorts quietly sitting back. “M. Marchal do we have any remedy for such an unfortunate contingency?”

M. Marchal says nothing at all, but pushes M. de Comminges’ chair forward suddenly, dumping him onto the floor. “What the hell…” de Comminges begins but finds himself screaming in pain, as M. Marchal steps with his boot on his hand.

“M. Marchal, that is quite enough,” M. de Thierry says after a few minutes. “I think M. de Comminges has understood our meaning.”

“This is a disgrace!” de Comminges grunts from the floor rubbing his hands.

“I could not agree with you more, M. de Comminges,” M. de Thierry replies. “Show us the order for the Captain’s arrest and we will make this conversation less unsavory.”

De Comminges stands up and moves towards the door. “I will do nothing of the sort,” he declares proudly. “I do not recognize your authority to demand anything of me!”

“Perhaps we did not make ourselves clear,” M. Marchal interjects, intercepting him midway. He shoves de Comminges against the wall. The man gasps as his back hits the stone surface, all the air suddenly sucked out of him. 

“Let me put it another way,” M. de Thierry continues politely, still seated at his Captain’s desk. “Is there any order to arrest our Captain? Did Her Majesty in fact order this arrest? These are simple questions, M. de Comminges. It is imperative that we get to the truth. You see, either our Captain is accused, or you arrived here making up false accusations. The former may prove devastating for our Captain. The latter can prove devastating for you…”

“I refuse to answer!” de Comminges mutters, gulping as M. Marchal seizes him firmly by the neck. He fights back and attempts to reach for his sword, but M. Marchal is faster. He throws de Comminges’ sword onto the floor and kicks it towards the Captain’s desk. “That was a bad idea, Comminges,” he snarls.

“Your Captain is a traitor!” de Comminges barks momentarily releasing himself from M. Marchal’s grip. “I will arrest him whether Her Majesty agrees or not!”

“In other words, there is no order from Her Majesty at all,” M. de Thierry remarks quietly. “Now, why did you not say this from the beginning, dear M. de Comminges? It would have saved us much time and saved you much grief.”

“You are both despicable vulgar brutes!” de Comminges yells.

“Shall I break his neck M. de Thierry to shut him up?” M. Marchal asks in a nonchalant tone.

“No, M. Marchal. We could never deprive Her Majesty of her Lieutenant of the Guards, even if the man is a lying, devious snake who will do anything to advance himself including accusing innocent people of treason!”  M. de Thierry declares, his voice quiet, despite the severity his words. “But we can give him a taste of what happens to those who threaten our Captain, perhaps?”

M. Marchal swiftly turns de Comminges around pinning his face against the wall, and clasping his hands behind his back. “I could break his arm,” he proposes.

“You are vulgar brutes!” de Comminges repeats, his face pinched against the wall. “This is not how Musketeers behave!” he howls.

M. Marchal chuckles and M. de Thierry leans back on his Captain’s chair, raising his booted legs onto the table. “Ah, yes. Well… you see… there is a thing or two you may not know about us M. de Comminges,” he says. “M. Marchal over there, was raised at the Court of Miracles. A cruel and terrible place by all accounts…”

“I liked it!” M. Marchal protests. 

“But he liked it!” M. de Thierry continues, correcting himself. “He has not been able to shirk that upbringing and it comes in handy at moments like this. As for me, M. de Comminges, underneath the gentle veneer you see before you, I was raised by all sorts of unsavory characters, highwaymen, pirates, brigands, cut-throats, and the like,” he adds. “So, you must excuse our crudeness, dear M. de Comminges. M. Marchal and I are not at all used to your kind of nobility…”

“We are very shady, really,” M. Marshal intones feigning disappointment.

“And reprehensible!” M. de Thierry adds. "But still somehow not as reprehensible as inventing false accusations and trying to arrest an innocent man!”

“We still need to do something about that, wouldn’t you agree M. de Thierry?” M. Marchal declares keeping de Comminges pinned against the wall.

“I fear we must!” M. de Thierry consents. “But not now, and not here.”

“True,” M. Marchal agrees. “M. de Thierry is very perceptive!” he whispers in de Comminges ear.

“This is what we propose,” M. de Thierry says, his tone now very deliberate. “We will let you go. You will gather your men, and leave. We will never reveal the fact that you arrived here without any orders from Her Majesty. In this, we are doing you a great service. Can you imagine what Her Majesty’s reaction will be if she ever discovers that you are using her as a pawn to achieve your ambitions? M. de Marchal and I will protect your stupidity. But, if you ever as much as blink towards our Captain again, M. Marchal and I will consider the agreement broken. In that case, we will wait for you without our Musketeer uniforms at a dark alley somewhere around the places where you mostly prefer to seek entertainment…”

“The rue Bondel, for instance,” M. Marchal suggests.

“Exactly! That street of divine pleasures or some of the taverns where you frequent!” M. de Thierry continues. “Anyway, we will make sure that we will meet you, and then we will act as befits our depraved upbringing.”

“We could cut a finger,” M. Marchal begins, as if making a list, “or his balls…”

“Language, my dear Fabien!” M. de Thierry interrupts him. “Remember this is not the Court of Miracles and we are Musketeers. What do you say, M. de Comminges?”

“Go to hell!” de Comminges grunts fighting to release himself from M. Marchal, right as the door of the office bursts open. D’ Artagnan walks in followed by two Swiss officers from the Prime Minister’s personal guard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Translation:  
> How laughable the puff of smoke,  
> We call fame.


	85. Return to Marseille

Night birds whistled and cooed their wistful tunes. Dark clouds drifted across the night sky occasionally obscuring the pearly moonlight. As the clouds drifted, patches of dim light appeared and disappeared on the dark street. He was moving as rapidly as he dared, passing the customs house and the open market where a few figures curled into woven blankets lay on table tops in the now empty stalls. They did not stir as he walked by their sleeping forms. He paused to listen carefully to the sound of footfalls behind him. He moved into the labyrinth of narrow streets filled with offices of those who had business at any port – merchants, bankers, bookkeepers, shopkeepers and shipbuilders. Their offices were dark at this hour of the night. The only light on the street came when a door from a tavern opened to let light, or a burst of conversation, or music and singing or a patron or two stumbles into the dark street.

He ducked into a narrow alleyway and stopped, pulling his dagger from his belt. He didn’t have long to wait. Two men were hurrying up the street talking in low tones. They slowed to glance into each darkened doorway and along the shadows of the buildings. He was tired and irritable – and he’d had enough of being followed. As they drew closer, he gripped his dagger. 

>

He left Anne in Blois and turned toward Marseille still unsettled about leaving Paris and riding a horse for long hours gave him too much time to think about it. By day they rode at a steady pace, staying in roadside inns or under the stars. It was uneventful – except for the nights when dreams of fire and burning and death came to him unbidden and unwelcome. They had arrived in Marseille three days ago and he was bone tired. He had paused at the highest point of the roadway so Joseph could have a first look at the city, its port and blue sea sparkling in the sun beyond. Lucien sat still and let the boy absorb his impressions. He remembered his own early days in this place where outsiders, immigrants and foreigners found a place where they not only belonged but could thrive or – at least find refuge. He had been one of those outsiders who found his life here – among the traders and merchants, ship owners, captains and seamen.

He leaned on the pommel of his saddle and drew Joseph’s attention to the chapel and old fort built on the highest point overlooking the entrance to the port, ‘many sailors pay homage at this chapel and give thanks to be returned from the sea.’ He pointed out the stone towers of the Abbaye de Saint Victor, and in the distance an island with the outline of an intimidating stone fortress. The wind carried the distant smells of a port city – a pungent mixture of sea salted air, tar, dead fish, and rotting food mixed with the tangy scents of hundreds of different spices sold at the teeming markets next to the port. Joseph’s eyes sparkled with excitement and anticipation.

As they descended along the road, he looked curiously at the fields lining the road, ‘what is it sir?’

‘Hemp,’ Lucien replid, ‘Marseille is one of the largest producers and traders of hemp for rope and baskets. A profitable commodity for a port city.’  


‘Do you own any farms?’ he asked Lucien. ‘Yes,’ said Lucien, ‘not only in hemp.’ He said no more, and Joseph decided not to ask. M Grimaud was giving him a great opportunity here and would tell him whatever he needed to know. They passed under an ancient Roman aqueduct and then they were at the city walls and through the gate and into busy narrow streets, some cobbled and some dirt, lined with tall and very narrow stone buildings. M Grimaud led the way from one street to another and Joseph could only hope he would not be left to find his way alone.

They came to a stop in front of one of these tall thin stone buildings, the lowest floor advertising a shop selling olive oil and soap. A window displayed a collection of tall narrow necked bottles and a stack of raw edged darkly colored blocks of soap. Lucien motioned for Joseph enter. As he pushed open the door a small bell tinkled, and a strong scent of violets filled his nose. Tall shelves were fitted against one wall and more bottles lined the shelves secured by a thin wooden bar running the width of each shelf. In a glass fronted cabinet, baskets held more blocks of soap, some darkly colored, some a lighter shade.

A man of older years came through a doorway from the back wiping his hands on an apron. He was tall, more lean than thin, white haired with mobile bushy dark eyebrows framing piercing blue eyes. He was smiling broadly and greeted Lucien with a ferocious hug, muscles bunching in his sinewy arms and kissing both cheeks.

‘About time Lucien!’ the man exclaimed with delight. ‘It has been too long.’ M Grimaud clasped the older man’s hand and turned to Joseph introducing him, ‘Joseph – this is M Michel Bucaro.’ He turned to M Bucaro, ‘I have brought you an excellent apprentice Michel.’

‘Joseph!’ said M Bucaro warmly, ‘welcome – welcome.’ He looked at M Grimaud quizzically. ‘Joseph does not remember his family – so we have offered him a place,’ said Lucien. ‘His reward for joining my family is to be enrolled in Madame’s education program – we have been conjugating Latin verbs since Paris.’ M Bucaro laughed again and then ushered them to the back of the store, ‘good!’ he declared, ‘an educated man is less likely to be duped by scoundrels. Come – Mme Blanche has made food – let’s eat.’

He ushered them through a narrow doorway into a passageway that led towards a large room at the rear of the house. It was a kitchen with a rectangular table in the center and a small round table set in a corner under two windows overlooking a small garden. A woman was stirring a pot and the smell of fresh baked bread filled the kitchen. She turned her head to smile at their arrival.

‘Lucien,’ she said with low melodic voice, ‘how wonderful to see you my dear.’ She was of uncertain years, her blond hair streaked with gray but the twinkle her blue eyes was merry, and her movements around her kitchen were quick and sure. Lucien gave her a kiss on the cheek and turned to introduce Joseph.

‘And who is this handsome lad?’ she took Joseph’s hand in her warm floury one. ‘My name is Joseph,’ said the boy shyly. She gave him a broad smile.

‘I am Madame de Marius,’ she shook his hand with a firm grip, ‘Michel is my brother – my younger brother – so he must obey me!’ Her eyes twinkled again, ‘I am very pleased to meet you Joseph.’ The boy and the older woman beamed at each other. Already, they were friends.

‘Now – sit and let’s eat,’ she said ladling hot fragrant fish stew into big bowls and setting bread, fresh butter and cheese on the table. Ale was poured and they sat in companionable company enjoying good food and each other’s company. They spoke of their families, children and old friends. Later he and Michel would review the books and ledgers on the work at the farms and in the stores. There was little talk of the insurrection in Paris and Lucien did not mention arrest warrants, nightmares, murdered women or pirate slavers in Paris.

An hour later Lucien rose, ‘I’ll take my leave. I put Joseph in your capable hands.’ He turned to Joseph who was looking well fed and pleased. ‘M Bucaro is a stern taskmaster, but a fair man. You can learn a great deal here Joseph – use your time well.

‘Yes sir,’ said Joseph, proud to be chosen for this task. ‘I won’t let you down sir,’ Lucien embraced the boy, ‘never thought otherwise.’ He looked down at Joseph’s shining face, ‘be sure to use some of that soap from time to time!’ he admonished. ‘And do not neglect your studies! Madame Sophia will want your correspondence and regular reports. Don’t forget to write to Rayya. She will want to know every detail of your work here.’ Joseph smiled happily – he had a family to which he belonged, he could make letters and conjugate Latin verbs. He had Madame and Rayya to whom he would write. The world was a wondrous place.

M Bucaro walked Lucien to his horse as Joseph led his horse down the narrow alleyway to the stable in the back of the building. Lucien turned to M Bucaro, ‘I don’t know yet if I will stay at the house. I’ll send word. Keep an eye on him, there may be some looking for me. He should not attract attention – but just in case…’

M Bucaro interrupted him, ‘we leave tomorrow for the farm – there is much work to do in the orchards. We will be there for a while.’ Lucien breathed a sigh of relief, ‘even better. I will be at the shipping office today and tomorrow if you need me.’

‘I would like you to come look at some land to the west,’ said Michel. ‘It has a small vineyard already and there is room for more plantings. A widow is interested in selling.’ Lucien looked interested and nodded approvingly, ‘yes – I would like to see it.’ The two men embraced again and then Lucien mounted his horse and waved good-bye.

>

He led his horse up the steep street behind the city offices, hooves clicking against the cobblestones. The sun was slanting towards the west, but still hot and he had removed his doublet and tied it to the saddle. The buildings grew wider the higher he climbed, with alleyways between them. He came to a high wall, a doorway set into it at its midpoint. He tapped on the door and it opened immediately.

‘M Grimaud,’ said the porter as sedate as though he had returned from leaving the house this same day, ‘shall I take your horse sir?’ and reached for the reins. Lucien walked through the enclosed tended garden, bordered with pine and olive trees. Lavender scented the air, wild geraniums and yellow marigolds were blooming.

The housekeeper was waiting by the front door and she smiled as she took his bag, ‘M Grimaud,’ she spoke softly, ‘there is hot food and the bathhouse is ready.’ 

‘Are there any messages?’ he asked. No couriers had caught up with them, nor had there been any letters delivered to M Bucaro or the shipping office. ‘No M,’ said the housekeeper. He sighed heavily. He felt desperate to know the news of Paris. Had guards come to the house to arrest him? What news of Suzanne and the Duchess? If there was any trouble Martin would have sent word by now. But Sophia…

‘Thank you, Madame,’ he said suddenly aware of his stiff limbs and road grit in his hair and mouth, ‘bath first, I think. It was a long ride.’ She nodded and disappeared to unpack his bag and survey the work done by the maids to prepare his rooms. He walked through the back of the house to the small blue tiled bathhouse at the rear of the garden.

An hour later he stood in the open frame of a tall door that opened onto a small terrace looking out over the city. He turned around. He was in their bedchamber, the bed facing the window where he and Sophia had lain together and could see the sky and the bluest of oceans, listening to birds and gulls wheeling out along the quays and smell the scented garden and the warm sea air. He could see her - rolled onto her side, long slender legs tangled in the linen sheets, baring her back, her dark hair spilling behind her on the pillows. He lay across the bottom of the bed braced on one elbow as he wrapped one hand around her slender ankle and gently massaged her foot. She murmured and stretched as he kissed his way up her bare back along the notched bone of her spine, one hand splayed across her stomach. She rolled her hips in a sensuous movement and turned into his arms…

He shook his head to clear the memories and lay down on the empty bed. Perhaps he should not have come to the house - he should have stayed in a pub. Again, he was assailed with doubts and anger at her insistence that he leave Paris. To be here without her…he felt disoriented. Did she no longer care? Had he finally driven her away? Why were there no letters? He rubbed his head tiredly – the nightmares came every night and often more than once in a night. He needed to sleep, if he was to understand anything, he needed to be alert and careful. He closed his eyes listening to the noise of the city at a distance and imagined her next to him, one bare leg thrown over his, her arm across his chest and her breath tickling his neck…

>

_The fire was hot against his face. He shoved the burning door inward and it fell free from its frame crashing onto the floor in a shower of sparks and billowing smoke. The cries had come from inside – he could hear the child whimpering, but the smoke was thick and black as night – he could not see - where are you? he tried to shout but no sound came from him – smoke filled his mouth and nose, closing his throat – he couldn’t breathe. He coughed hard to clear his throat and opened his mouth to shout again when a gust of wind swept the smoke aside and he saw the small dark haired form huddled in the farthest corner, knees drawn up head tucked into knees, thin shoulders heaving with sobs and fear. He pushed through the doorframe into the burning room when above him a great cracking and groaning of wood being splintered and weakened with fire brought the roof crashing onto the floor. Fire roared upward as fresh air fed its insatiable appetite and the child disappeared behind the wall of flames. No! he screamed…no! no! no!..._

He jerked awake, a sour taste in his mouth and gasping for air. The room was dark, cloudy moonlight drifting around the floor. The night air was cool against his bare skin. A covered glass of watered wine was next to the bed and he drank it greedily and fell back against the pillows waiting for his racing heart to calm and his breathing to steady. He was awake and wouldn’t be returning to sleep anytime soon. He swung his feet to the floor and stood up. He dressed quickly and strode from the room.

The gaming tables El M’rarbet were filled with card players and men sitting in conversation with others along the benches and chairs under the windows and in front of the fireplace. The tavern keeper was busy at the serving bar setting tankards of ale and bottles of wine on the wooden trays carried by serving women. Somewhere in the crowded room a violin was being played. He paused in the open doorway to look for a familiar face. Many swiveled their necks at the newcomer turning to others to exchange a word or a knowing glance. The noise in the room faded.

‘Grimaud!’ boomed a loud voice, deeply resonant and accented from the western shores of Africa. It came from the far side of the room. A dark-skinned man was making his way through the crowd, mostly by shoving to the side anyone not quick enough to get out of his way – which was almost everyone. He was a huge man, his thick corded neck visible in an opened shirt over which he wore a weathered leather jacket that fell almost to his knees. His baggy breeches tightened at every step of his muscular thighs. His knee-high boots thudded heavily on the wooden floor, his shaved head gleaming in the candlelight. He caught Grimaud in bear-hug almost lifting him off his feet. Grimaud laughed and pounded the back as broad and hard as an ox.

Lucien grinned, ‘Jacky!’ The two men stepped back to appraise each other still holding onto the arms of the other. Jacky gave Lucien a quick shake.

‘By heaven man,’ said Jacky grinning broadly, his white teeth gleaming against his dark skin, ‘you are a sight to behold. It’s about time you left that pestilential place of powdered boys and returned to a city with real men! And the beautiful Sophia? She is here too? I shall hope to see those blue eyes again before I depart this earth!’

‘It’s good to see you Jacky,’ chuckled Grimaud, ‘Her Grace stays at home with our children.’ He did not elaborate.

‘Mmm…’ Jacky narrowed his eyes and studied Lucien, ‘I think the children are not the reason she stays at home – yes? I see business in your eyes my friend. Good! I have business to discuss with you!

‘But first’ he turned to the near silent room, ‘we drink!’ he thundered, and the room erupted with noisy merriment as men roared their approval. Shouts and toasts followed as Lucien was greeted with embraces and friendly claps on his shoulders or arms. One man or another would turn to the assembly, ‘have you heard the story….’ or ‘do you remember when Grimaud….’ and there would be many shouts as contributions to the story poured forth amid the thumping of ale tankards on tables. The tales meandered and grew embellished as the telling unfolded of adventures sailing in wild seas, chasing a prize, or a fight or an escapade with a woman – accompanied by laughter and catcalls.

‘….and the Captain is hollering, ‘Grimaud – quit casting up your accounts over that railing and get your skinny arse off my deck and into those shrouds!’ Weathered seadogs laughed and stamped their feet and Lucien laughed with them shaking his head at the memories. He glanced around the room at the assemblage – those not familiar to him sitting at the periphery.

His gaze stopped at a small table to the side where a woman was sitting alone, shuffling a deck of cards. Dark eyes and long dark hair covered with a colorful scarf, she stared boldly back at him. A fortune teller – the same fortune teller he had seen in Flea’s tavern months ago. He shuddered suddenly and stared down at his hand remembering the burning sensation he had felt at the touch of her fingers and her words…. _‘Rascal still misses you – but one in your heart flies free and is known to you.’_

When he looked back at the small table, the fortune teller was gone.

The woman absently twisted a strand of red hair as she listened to the raucous group near the front of the room. She was obscured by the men standing and raising their tankards of ale. She watched him, tall and broad, his face older but still beautifully sculpted, his lips shaped and parted in laughter. He stood within a circle of men, one booted foot set on a chair leaning his elbow on his knee as he talked, his strong capable hands conveying his story with graceful gestures. How comfortable he was – as though he had never left – easily drawn into the life here. Why shouldn’t he be? This was his home – he belonged here - - not in Paris or some noble estate with a spoiled noble wife in silks and powders. He should never have left here. He should never have left her.

The serving girl brought her a fresh tankard and looked in the same direction. ‘Is that M Grimaud?’ she asked, an appreciate gleam in her eyes as she looked him up and down appraisingly. ‘A man with those shoulders…’ she left the rest unsaid – it wasn’t necessary.

She decided to leave – she didn’t want him to see her yet. It wasn’t the right place or time. She pulled her cloak around her as she walked along the quay, boats lined up along its length, the old fort looming high into the night at a distance across the port. The sea lapped softly against the pilings. The night sky brilliant with stars, the moon pearly white against its inky clouded darkness. For a moment she could feel the touch of his strong hand enclosing hers, the warmth of his body as he had held her against him as they had stood together on soft nights.

She had been a girl when she had first seen him on this quay, in the long boats that drew into the port and joined the jostling crowd of boats vying for position to unload the cargo from ships anchored farther out. Her curling mass of red hair escaping its tethers and flying at random around her freckled face, she quickly wove her way through the crowd of merchants and clerks, captains, ship’s crew and porters that filled the wharf area. The air was filled with the sharp familiar scents of the port and she ran down the quay and spotted the boat she was looking for.

Her unruly flaming hair and freckled face drew teasing remarks from men working the quay and, in the boats, – most knew her and her father. Her face reddened under their banter and the good-natured laughter followed her as she ran along. M Grimaud was standing in the long boat coiling rope and he turned around at her call. She thought him the most astonishingly handsome man. She held up her father’s letter. He swung up to the quay and took the letter smiling down at her absently. She blushed and looked down. He broke the seal and read the note.

‘Tell your father I would be honored to dine with him tonight.’ From the boat came another tease, ‘carrot top! I’ve got a carpet that color!’ He ignored the men and lifted a hand to take several strands of her hair between thumb and forefinger. She froze and did not think she was breathing. The men hooted behind him.

‘It reminds me of the sunset,’ he said stroking the strands of hair between his fingers, ‘it’s beautiful.’ She felt the flush rushing up her neck to her face. She dared a look at him from hooded eyes. He was smiling at her.

At dinner she sat silent listening to the men talk. M Grimaud had a deep velvet voice, confident and firm. On occasion she felt him glance in her direction to not ignore her. He thanked her politely for the dinner and her father for his hospitality. He was leaving the next day with his ship. It would be almost two years until he returned. And when he came to their home again to dine with her father, she knew he no longer saw a skinny freckled girl with bright red hair. He saw her with a woman’s shape and long hair glossy and streaked with fiery red, copper and gold – like liquid fire he had called it as he tangled his fingers through its silky mass and brought her lips to his.

>

Lucien stood in the dark alley, dagger in his hand. The men paused at the entrance to the alley, unable to see down into its dark length. He waited. They moved on and he slipped stealthily behind them. A cloud passed by the moon and for a moment he could see the profile of the man he now followed. He pulled his pistol.

Black hair curled around a heavy jowled face with thick brows hovering over deep set eyes. He had thick curling eyelashes and his mouth was full-lipped and a woman’s rosy color. His face might have been considered handsome except for the unsettling quality of his unrevealing black eyes. No light or animation of emotion or sentimentality shone from their flat opaque surfaces. Shark’s eyes thought Lucien.

Lucien cleared his throat and the man whirled, his cutlass in hand and body tensed for fight. One look at who was behind him and his arm shot out to stop the second man from moving.

‘Grimaud,’ he said tonelessly. Lucien stepped into the dim moonlight weapons ready. Across the narrow street the two men stared at each other wordlessly – but volumes of hate and rage were being spewed into the dirt that separated them. Memories were unspooling in their minds – images from the past fueling their heated blood. Lucien flattened his eyes and twisted his mouth, tightening his grip on his dagger.

‘Benito’


	86. The Muse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D' Artagnan is not as pleased as he should be.  
> Athos intervenes and makes a significant decision.  
> Queen Anne shows how she can deal with a crisis and Aramis how to avert one.  
> M. de Thierry doubts his value and merit, whereas someone else discovers it.

**Author: Mordaunt**

_Tes beautés et ta grâce_  
_Et tes divins propos_  
_Ont échauffé la glace_  
_Qui me gelait les os,_  
_Et ont rempli mon cœur_  
_D'une amoureuse ardeu.(1_ )

_(Thoinot Arbeau, aka Jean Tabourot, 1520-1595, Belle qui tiens ma vie)_

 

De Comminges gasps for air and begins to cough as M. Marchal quickly releases his tight grip around the guard’s neck at the sight of his Captain. “Captain! You are here!” M. Marchal exclaims his tone that of a man caught in the midst of some great mischief. D’ Artagnan glowers at him and then at M. de Thierry who removes his feet from his Captain’s desk and stands upright.

“We were…” M. Marchal begins.

“…having an amicable conversation with M. de Comminges, about the situation at the gate,” de Thierry interjects speaking in formal military tone, although de Comminges’ wheezing sounds do not help to support his explanation.

“Ah! M. de Comminges!” d’ Artagnan remarks in a manner nonchalant, as if he notices the Queen’s Lieutenant for the first time. “You are to return to the Louvre with these officers. Her Majesty wants to see you immediately.”

“I demand an explanation for this treatment” de Comminges proclaims, his voice still hoarse, “I demand…”

“You demand nothing!” D’ Artagnan’s tone is calm but his rage is palpable. “You will remove your men from the street in front of my Garrison, Monsieur,” he declares, walking up to de Comminges. “But first you will remove yourself from my office and from my sight! These officers are here to escort you to the Louvre!” He tilts his head towards the two Swiss Guards who stand at the threshold.

De Comminges opens his mouth as if he is about to protest but decides against it. There is something definitive in Captain d’ Artagnan’s tone of voice. Besides, he knows that Gascons like the Captain of the Musketeers are not known for their patience. M. de Comminges may be bold and ambitious but he is not stupid. If Captain d’ Artagnan was with Her Majesty all this time then Her Majesty knows that the Lieutenant of her Guards used her name without any permission to accuse his superior officer of harboring a traitor. M. de Comminges has no doubt that his accusation is true, for his source, M. de Wardes, is a reliable and trustworthy ally. But he also knows that currently he has no proof. He understands that his position has suddenly become extremely precarious, first in this office, facing the fury of his Gascon superior officer and two of his men, who threaten like cut-throats; then in the street, where his twenty men are standing against a small army of Musketeers, but primarily at court. An escort of Swiss Guards is the closest M. de Comminges has ever come to being arrested. Her Majesty is more than just displeased. He must find a way to make her see the truth, he tells himself, but to do that, he must comply now. M. de Comminges knows he is good at court politics; better than the Captain of the Musketeers. He knows that although this battle is lost, winning the war is still within his grasp. He has powerful allies. He has no doubt d’ Artagnan harbors the Comte de la Fére. He just needs time to prove it. So, for the moment, he lowers his head and silently complies, following the Swiss Guards out of d’ Artagnan’s office.

The Captain observes the overturned chair and Comminges’ sword on the floor. “Do I want to know what happened here, Messieurs?” He sounds exasperated and tired, a man having to deal with all sorts of court intrigues outside the Garrison walls, and men who act like uncontrollable children within them. That is how he feels on days like this. He notices that M. Marchal sends a perplexed look towards M. de Thierry across the room, urging his comrade to speak. “Well, M. de Thierry?” d’ Artagnan interjects. “You seem to be in charge here. Clearly, you find my chair comfortable. You have been full of clever ideas this entire evening, so pray enlighten me! Do I want to know what happened here?” The Captain sounds calm and collected, but his eyes glower with rage, which makes his words even more threatening.

A voice breaks the tense silence. “You must learn what happened here d’ Artagnan!” Athos walks through the side door followed by Raoul, their swords still drawn. “These two young men would make you proud,” Athos declares.

D’ Artagnan is not appeased. “Where the hell were you?” he would like to ask but he checks himself. Athos looks as if he has survived quite a fight wherever he has been: his shirt loose, wet and covered with blood, a fresh scar across his chest, bruises and scratches on his face. This has not been an easy night for any of them, d’ Artagnan realizes. “Were you behind that door all the time?” he asks instead, his anger slowly mollified.

“Raoul and I decided to wait in that room, in case M. de Thierry and M. Marchal needed additional manpower, but they did a magnificent job without our help,” Athos explains. He can hear the anger in d’ Artagnan’s voice, and he understands his friend’s exasperation. M. de Thierry and M. Marchal make easy targets, but it is unfair. He decides to place himself between his friend’s anger and the two young men. D’ Artagnan senses it too: he is being unfair to his men, to de Thierry in particular. He has been harsh on the boy since the night de Rohan was ambushed. But he expected better.

“De Comminges did not appear pleased with our hospitality,” d’ Artagnan remarks, his tone stern and playful at the same time. “I hope you have not made a bad impression, Messieurs.”

“We were very obliging, Captain,” M. de Thierry retorts. “Even if M. de Comminges was not exactly forthcoming,” M. Marchal adds feigning an innocent look.

“I can attest to that, Captain” Raoul interjects solemnly.

“Me too,” Athos confirms. “M. de Thierry and M. Marchal were models of chivalry and the Musketeer spirit.”

D’ Artagnan leans against his desk, rubbing his chin. He is no longer angry but he is not entirely satisfied. “Let’s not congratulate ourselves just yet.  De Comminges is no fool,” he says after a while. “He will return.”

“I agree,” Athos asserts, putting his arm around d’ Artagnan’s shoulder. “But not tonight. And not tomorrow.” D’ Artagnan exhales turning towards his friend, a faint smile on his lips: “Let’s hope we have until tomorrow, Athos!”

“Is it safe to tell Madame d’ Artagnan?” M. de Thierry ventures, sensing that his Captain’s anger has now subsided.

“I will tell her,” d’ Artagnan replies, moving to the door. “The two of you,” he orders, addressing M. de Thierry and M. Marchal, “clean up this place. When I return I want it to look the way it was when I left for the Louvre.” He opens the door but stops again, turning to de Thierry: “Young man!” he adds, “no one puts their feet upon my desk!”

“Well, it could have been worse!” M. Marchal remarks the moment the Captain leaves. He feigns a smile trying to lighten the mood and cheer up M. de Thierry, but the young Musketeer looks downcast and disappointed. He had secretly hoped his actions would earn him better standing with his Captain.

That is not how it should be, Raoul thinks. A part of him wants to protest how his friends are treated but a look from his father makes him pause. He knows these are soldiers, not schoolchildren. Still, he finds it all unfair. “I for one, thought you were both brilliant!” he declares.

“The Captain is right, Raoul” M. de Thierry says quietly. “De Comminges outranks us both. We were not exactly respectful of his rank. This is not how Musketeers behave.”

“It is true,” Athos says, patting the young Musketeer on the back with an impish smile. “But I suspect you two would have made the likes of Lucien Grimaud very proud!”

*******

“How is Constance?” Athos sits in a large comfortable armchair by the fireplace in his room. He is neatly dressed in fresh clean clothes, his long hair pulled back, revealing more bruises and fresh scars on his pale complexion.

“She is fine,” d’ Artagnan replies. He sits across from Athos with a glass of wine in his hands. “She is not fine Athos,” he corrects himself after a moment. He sounds troubled. “She is not well at all. She cried… She is terrified…”

“I must leave Paris,” Athos says quietly.

D’ Artagnan sighs. “No. It’s not you… It’s… She helped many rioters. She found shelter for them in some godforsaken safehouse at the Rue des Lombards. She got them bread… Turns out that bread was made from stolen grain…”

“I see…” Athos lowers his eyes. Grimaud again… although in this case, Athos cannot find any blame in the man’s actions or in Constance’s decisions. Of course, he can hardly tell d’ Artagnan this, or that he knows the safehouse at the Rue de Lombards.

“But it is not this either,” d’ Artagnan continues. “Not really.” He downs the entire content of his glass, which is unusual. Athos realizes his friend is deeply troubled. “It’s me…” d’ Artagnan says after a while.  “I pretend not to know… I pretend that everything is still as it used to be…”

“It is an impossible choice, dear friend,” Athos replies. He leans forward pressing d’ Artagnan’s hand with great warmth. “It is a very thin and dangerous line you must tread and none of us is helping you. I am to be blamed most of all!”

“Nonsense!” d’ Artagnan protests. “I am not some green callow youth who does not know any better. I placed myself in this position. I know what my wife thinks, Athos. I know what she does too. I will protect my wife, and you, and your son, and Porthos. I will protect the Dauphin and the Queen. I refuse to choose one side over the other.”

“You may have to,” Athos says quietly. “In this, I am no help to you at all. Quite the opposite.”

D’ Artagnan leans back in his armchair narrowing his eyes. “Dare I ask what happened tonight?”

“You mean with de Thierry and Marchal? They are two extremely resourceful young men. They got de Comminges to admit he was here on false pretenses. They would have had him withdraw his men too.” 

“You think I was too harsh on them, then?” d’ Artagnan sounds defensive.

“No. I understand your reasons for berating them perfectly. I would probably have done the same. Still, de Thierry made some ingenious quick decisions under the circumstances.”

“Reckless…” d’ Artagnan corrects him.  

“You are very hard on him,” Athos observes.

“Do you know how old de Thierry was when he started training as a Musketeer, Athos? Thirteen. He fought his first battle when he was fourteen. That is younger than any of us four. That is younger than most Musketeers we know. I expect him to prove to me he is worth all this training. I expect to see him thrive more than any of my men. You are right. He is brilliant and fearless. But it is not enough. He lacks the discipline!” Athos would have liked to make a comment about d’ Artagnan’s youthful recklessness when he first joined the Musketeers, but decides it is not the right moment.

“But I was not asking about my men,” d’ Artagnan continues. “I was asking about you. What happened to you?” He points with his finger towards Athos’ bruises and scars.  

“Nothing of note. I was attacked. I believe it was the same men who attacked de Rohan.” Athos shrugs.

D’ Artagnan gasps with exasperation. “You call that nothing? How many?”

“Four, and before you ask they are all dead. Well… almost…” Athos replies scratching his brow as if mildly embarrassed to admit a failing.

“Almost?”

“I think I missed one. A strange-looking man: pockmarked face and gold teeth.” 

“Who sent them? Grimaud?”

“No, no!” Athos protests. “This has nothing to do with Grimaud!” He is not inclined to reveal much more. What can he possibly say, that it was an ambush orchestrated by a woman who seeks excitement in danger and finds death thrilling? Athos does not believe her assurances that she knew nothing about the attack. He wants to forget the entire incident. He wants to forget Madame de Chevreuse crossed his path again. “This was a private matter…” he says cryptically. 

“I don’t follow…” d’ Artagnan replies perplexed.

“Politics,” Athos shrugs dismissively. “These are hired thugs. Someone wanted to send me a message. They failed.”

D’ Artagnan looks pensive. It is clear his friend does not intend to reveal more. It is unclear what kinds of politics require the services of paid brigands, even in these treacherous times. But d’ Artagnan feels he should not press for more. If Athos claims everything is taken care of, then he should take his friend at his word.

Athos stands up and leans with his elbow against the carved mantel of the fireplace. “Both Raoul and I must leave, Paris,” he says after a while. “My presence here places you and your family in danger especially after tonight. And Raoul simply cannot stay in Paris.”

“Athos, Raoul cannot leave Paris!” d’ Artagnan interjects. “I spoke to the Queen tonight. Aramis was present. He made sure I heard that the King demands your son’s presence at court. That His Majesty wrote him a letter to that effect.”

“Despite all that happened?” Athos is confounded.

“I was told that the King considers the whole incident with Mademoiselle du Pouget an unfortunate coincidence and Raoul an innocent bystander. That the girl was a notorious coquette.”

Athos chuckles with exasperation. He had the exact same argument with M. the Coadjutor. It suddenly occurs to Athos, that the priest knew much more than he revealed at their meeting. He knew there would be a letter from the Dauphin to Raoul or he anticipated such a letter. He invited Raoul to the safehouse at the Rue des Lombards not to help restore his good name, but to make him a political ally. It makes sense now why the Coadjutor reacted with such nonchalance when Athos refused to allow him any access to Raoul. That damn priest knew all too well that he could make an ally of Raoul away from his father’s influence, as a member of the young King’s retinue.  “And what about his honor… his name will be forever tainted…?” Athos mutters. It is a futile argument. He recalls that M. the Coadjutor found such idealism entertaining.

“They call this being a man of a certain reputation,” d’ Artagnan scoffs, echoing Athos’ distaste. “Everyone who is anyone these days is a man of a certain reputation I am told…”

“Not my son!” Athos interrupts him. He clenches his jaw, and thrusts his fist against the mantel, unable to contain his anger. D’ Artagnan wonders what he would say in Athos’ place if this were Alexandre. Probably the same.  He lowers his eyes and remains silent. It is the most eloquent answer he can offer. “Do you trust them?” Athos asks. “Do you trust that this murder will not return to haunt my son’s life?”

D’ Artagnan looks up straight into his friend’s eyes. “No. I don’t,” he replies. “I do not trust any of them. Neither should you. Neither should Raoul.”

*******

“What now, Anne?” Aramis stands with his back against the closed door of the Queen’s private salon. She paces in the room agitated. Outside the tall windows, a storm rages in the darkness, the rumble of the thundering skies masking their voices from the prying courtiers flocking the halls outside. “We cannot keep this a secret for too long,” Aramis contends. He looks and sounds worried. “De Comminges showed up with twenty Guards outside the Musketeer Garrison. He almost started a battle… Musketeers against the Queen’s Guards, in the street, a few paces from the Louvre!”

“But it was averted,” she retorts. “No one knows…”

“Twenty Guards and the entire Musketeer Garrison know!” Aramis exclaims. “Do we swear them all to secrecy? The streets around the Louvre know! Do we threaten every single household between Rue d’ Autruche and Rue Froidmanteu?” He tries to remain unaffected but his voice betrays his anguish. “In a city divided between Frondeurs and the Palace, the Queen’s and the King’s forces are now fighting among themselves, because de Comminges is blinded by his unbridled ambition! What does this signify about the King’s power, Anne, and about his ability to rule one day very soon?”

She keeps pacing in the room. Aramis can tell that underneath her impervious demeanor she is terrified. He exhales in an effort to calm himself, setting aside his own anger and frustration, and he gently reaches for her hand, stopping her midway. He slips his arm around her waist pulling her closer. She avoids his gaze and tries to push him away, her fists against his chest.

“Anne, look at me!” he speaks softly, although his tone is stern. She continues to resist but he holds her close. “Please my love, look at me!” His voice is tender now, full of emotion. “We must act, and act quickly. We cannot permit our fear for our son’s future let opportunists like de Comminges keep us hostage!” She stops fighting him and looks up. He can see tears glistening in her eyes, and something else: seething anger. It is this anger that concerns Aramis the most. He knows from experience that it can sweep everyone and everything along its path unless he stops it now. “De Comminges must be quietly removed, Anne,” he ventures. “Send him to the front with his most loyal men. M. le Prince needs good men to fight for him, now the war resumes.”

“No!” she replies peevishly. “M. de Comminges has served me for years. Who shall replace him? Who is there, whom I can trust?” 

“M. de Rohan," Aramis interjects knowing too well she will disagree. But he is determined to make his case. “He has fought two wars and was deemed a hero. He has put his life on the line to protect our sons and you on numerous occasions. He is the one d’ Artagnan would choose to replace him as Captain of the Musketeers. He is the one I would choose also.”

“The son of that traitor,” she sneers dismissively.

“Is a son responsible for his father’s crimes? Do a man’s actions count for nothing, Anne? If that is the case, why am I here? I have no noble ancestors to recommend me.” She hears his voice quiver with emotion and lowers her eyes again. She feels it deeply, how much she hurts him when her anger takes over. Why does she have to be Queen and not just “his Anne?” She longs to embrace him, taste his lips again, feel his warm body in her arms, touch the silk of his hair. “You are the only truth that matters to me,” she wants to tell him. But it is only for a moment. Other truths flood into her mind: Her son’s uncertain future. All the secrets de Comminges knows already. The prying eyes and ears outside that door. The enemies lurking within the walls of this palace. If only she could be “just his Anne.” If only he could be “just her Aramis.” Neither is possible.  

“De Comminges remains!” she declares, releasing herself from Aramis’ embrace. She is herself again, remote and aloof: The Queen of France. “We will simply explain it was an unfortunate misunderstanding. De Comminges is a loyal servant, eager to do his duty. Too eager perhaps. That is all.”

“Why do you protect de Comminges, Anne?” Aramis insists. “How can you trust him?”

“Whom can I trust? You?” she exclaims her voice full of despair. Behind all the fences she raises between them Aramis can hear the tears she sheds when she is alone. “Can I even trust you?”

“You can always trust me, Anne!” He motions to reach her again but she pushes him away.

“Who is hiding in the Musketeer Garrison, Monseigneur?” Her voice is cold now. Distant.

He chuckles, checking himself. She is his Queen again, and he is her Prime Minister. “No one hides, in the Garrison, Your Majesty,” he replies, assuming a formal tone. “We have a visitor from England who is here on a delicate mission. Lord de Winter.”

She begins to laugh and continues to pace in the room. “ _De Winter_! You are not even trying! Do you take me for a fool, Monseigneur?”

“Your Majesty,” he replies without a moment’s hesitation. “Henry de Winter is the younger brother of George de Winter, the Baron of Sheffield who was one of the most loyal allies of France in the court of King James (2). After the death of his older brother George, the younger de Winter, became one of the closest friends of His Majesty, King Charles. Now he finds himself, like many good men in England, deprived of his lands and titles, a result of the chaos in that country. He is here to request an army for his King in the name of his Queen.”

She stops pacing and frowns at her Prime Minister, incredulous. “He asks for French troops? In England?”

“Queen Henrietta (3) asks for French troops, Your Majesty. She argues that she is late King Louis’ sister and your sister-in-law. You have read her many letters yourself. Lord de Winter is King Charles’ envoy and King Charles now agrees with his wife. De Winter tells me Poyer and others are now declaring for King Charles. There are rumors the Scots are arming (4). If France were to send troops, the time should be now.”

“This would be insanity,” she observes.

“I agree, Your Majesty. We could still offer Queen Henrietta shelter. She is after all a Princess of France.”

“She is the Queen of England,” Anne interjects dismissively. “Her duty is with her husband and her people. I used to be a princess of Spain, but now, as Queen of France I fight against Spain!”

“It costs us nothing to appear generous,” Aramis urges her gently. 

She stands with her hands to her hips, biting her lower lip, calculating their options. “We could offer Henrietta shelter. We do not want to appear cruel and… I suppose… she is a daughter of France. But we are not sending any troops. Not a single pair of French boots! We have enough wars to worry about. We are not getting involved in that English mess.”

“I agree, Your Majesty,” he says, bowing. He raises his eyes and notices her gaze fixed on him, an impish glow now in her eyes, instead of seething anger.

“So, that is what this de Winter is here for?” she insists.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he replies quietly.

“Well then,” she declares playfully. “I grant you Henrietta, if you grant me de Comminges.”

He sighs, and bows again. “If de Comminges stays we need to make some kind of gesture that explains what happened in the street tonight.”

“Leave that to me,” she says confidently. She motions to exit the room but stops right next to him. “You claim I can trust you, so I want to know this Aramis,” she whispers. “If de la Fére was hiding in that Garrison, would you protect him?”

“He is not hiding in that Garrison, Anne,” Aramis responds quietly. “But if he were, then yes. I would have protected him.”

*****

“Fix your belt, M. Marchal!” Captain d’ Artagnan whispers. “Your sword hangs too low!” The Captain stands next to his two men, M. Marchal and M. de Thierry in the grand domed palace hall.

“Her Majesty, Queen Anne of France!” a thundering voice announces and the large double doors burst open for the Queen, her retinue and a large group of courtiers to enter.

“Good morning, Captain!” the Queen smiles. She is in a surprisingly good mood, d’ Artagnan observes, considering the events of the previous night. When he last saw her, she was not smiling at all. “We wanted to congratulate you and your brave men, for their restraint and quick thinking.” She stops in front of M. Marchal first, handing him a small purse. “M. Marchal, you have once again, served Us well,” she asserts, and he thanks her bowing deeply as he receives the royal reward.

“M. de Thierry,” she continues placing a similar reward in the hands of the second Musketeer. “Your Captain praises you above all his men. It comes as no surprise for you have proven your courage and loyalty on many an occasion. Your Captain explained that your actions singlehandedly resolved an unfortunate misunderstanding that could have escalated. You are to be commended once again, Monsieur!” M. de Thierry cannot believe what he hears. He thought his Captain was dissatisfied. More than that: he thought his Captain had lost all trust and hope in him. He raises his head carefully from his deep bow to look at his Captain, but he can detect nothing at all in his demeanor. It is more likely that the Captain said nothing, he tells himself; that her Majesty is simply kind.

“Our brave M. de Comminges,” the Queen declares turning to the gathered crowd, “is loyal and eager to protect his Queen. But he can be too eager at times. It is a great gift to be surrounded by such loyal men, both my Guards and His Majesty’s brave Musketeers!” She raises her hands inviting the gathered courtiers to applaud.

******

M. de Wardes waits among the courtiers next to M. de Renard. He was not planning to attend a public audience with the Queen this early in the morning. Men of his rank rarely attend such trivial gatherings. These are for common courtiers and those who beg to be noticed. But he decided to attend out of curiosity. He had to assess for himself what kind of ally M. de Comminges would make. Rumors about the previous night only led to one conclusion: that the man is an incompetent fool. Useful perhaps, but utterly incompetent. M. de Wardes had already decided that he should seek another way to get his cousin’s letter into the Queen’s hands.

After this morning’s audience, however, M. de Wardes is no longer discouraged. De Comminges almost caused a fight in the street between Guards and Musketeers and for some reason, he is still protected. He must therefore, be worth something, M. de Wardes reckons. De Comminges is an ally who should be cultivated. But he owes M. de Comminges much more, he realizes, for after this morning’s audience, M. de Wardes discovers that he is no longer the same: he finds that his life has taken a completely unexpected turn.

“I cannot understand why you insisted we had to be here!” de Renard complains. He stands next to de Wardes in the crowded hall, huffing with impatience. He has been quite out of sorts lately, and a bit of a bore. “Do we have to endure listening to praises for Musketeer cut-throats?”

“Shut up, de Renard!” de Wardes whispers and pushes his way through the crowd. “Monsieur…” he ventures, “Monsieur de … Thierry?”

The Musketeer pauses on his way out of the hall, and bows removing his hat. He looks inquisitively at the man addressing him, “Monsieur…?”

“De Wardes!” The Comte introduces himself, removing his hat and bowing politely. It is not that de Thierry has not heard the name de Wardes or rumors about the man’s aloofness but he never imagined an encounter like this. He dislikes the man immediately, despite his beauty and elegance. Perhaps it is the way de Wardes keeps his eyes fixed on him; it unnerves M. de Thierry immensely. He does not appreciate being stared from head to toe as if he is being appraised. M. de Thierry does not like the man’s gaze. Behind those beautiful dark blue eyes, there is nothing at all: no light, no soul to animate them. Dead eyes, M. de Thierry thinks and it sends a shudder up his spine.

“It is an honor to meet you in person, M. de Thierry,” the Comte de Wardes exclaims. “Her Majesty prefers you above all your comrades it seems!” He smiles and it fills M. de Thierry with dread. He would rather not he here. He would rather not be talking to this man.

“Thank you, Monsieur le Comte," M. de Thierry replies maintaining his distance from the man and avoiding his eyes, “it is an honor to meet you also.” He bows politely and hurries to exit the hall, glad that he has escaped. He decides never to think of that man and his dead eyes again.

*****

“De Comminges!” Madame de Chevreuse scoffs disapprovingly. “You would entrust my letter to that idiot, de Comminges?”

“The Spaniard does not think him an idiot,” M. de Wardes observes absent-mindedly. He stands by one of the large windows in the great salon of his house, a glass of wine in his hands that he has not touched.

“I heard she praised de Comminges for his loyalty!” de Chevreuse laughs. “He must know… things!” She waits for her cousin to share some snide remark or offer some confirmation but he remains silent, as if engrossed by the sight of the setting sun. “How long until he delivers my letter?” she insists.

De Wardes turns as if he hears her voice for the first time. “Who? De Comminges? Oh, for that we may have to wait, although not for long. But under the circumstances, he was advised to remain away from court for a little while. Let things be forgotten. But he travels with the Queen to Orléans immediately after Easter. There will be plenty of opportunities there.” He notices that his cousin sits back in her armchair looking impatient and irritated. “Don’t worry cousin!” he adds, his tone stern and solemn. “This gives you more time to enjoy yourself with that principled man whose handsome head you are so eager to part from his shoulders!”

“You don’t approve?” She gasps with astonishment and disbelief at his tone of voice.

“I don’t! It is dishonest to play games with love!” he proclaims in the same self-righteous tone.  

“Are you ill cousin?” She stands and walks up to him placing her hand on his shoulder but he pushes her away. “God! You must be ill!” she declares. She sounds genuinely worried. “We must call the physician!”

“I am not ill!” He turns and takes her hand into his, pressing it with unusual warmth. There is fever in his eyes, she notices, and his pale skin is flushed. “I am the most fortunate of men!” he exclaims kissing her hand. “Today cousin, I finally met my muse!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Translation:  
> Your beauty and your grace  
> And your divine ways  
> Have melted the ice  
> Freezing my bones  
> And filled my heart  
> With loving ardor.
> 
> (2) This specific background story for Milady de Winter and Athos can be found in “Past Forgotten, Past Remembered” (posted on AO3). 
> 
> (3) Henrietta Maria of France (1609-1669): Queen consort of England, younger sister of Louis XIII. Her Catholicism made her very unpopular in England during the Civil War. Technically, by 1648 she would be in France already. She lived in exile at the Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye until 1660 (Restoration.) Dumas uses her as a character in “Twenty Years After.” In that novel the English Civil War is used extensively: action moves from France to England, where the four Musketeers (whose alliances are divided) are sent: Aramis and Athos are sent by Queen Henrietta to save King Charles I from the executioner, and Porthos and d’ Artagnan are sent by Prime Minister Mazarin to “observe” the war on the side of Cromwell. It is a brilliant plotline that is not even dampened by the fact that history demands that King Charles must be executed. In our story, we decided to leave the English Civil War in the background. No one can compete with Dumas’ storytelling in that. We decided instead, to take our readers to completely different—and we hope thrilling—journeys… elsewhere.
> 
> (4) The events Aramis relates are historically accurate.


	87. Neptune’s Tempests….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comminges meets the Cousins… and Lucien meets his past

In an upstairs room of the Aux Belles Poules, two of the loveliest chicks among the beautiful hens who resided in this establishment stood over a plush bed looking down at a naked man. Tilting their heads side to side, the scantily clad women examined him critically.

‘Not much to ‘im is there?’ said the dark-haired Justine as her judicious eyes roamed over his torso. She both grimaced and sighed theatrically at the paltry goods on display. 

‘Well - he didn’t last too long,’ chuckled her blonde companion arms akimbo against her ample hips. The bawds exchanged an amused look.  


‘How much did you give him?’ Justine asked leaning on the bed to peer more closely at the prostrate man. She pushed him gently to test his degree of alertness. No reaction. She glanced at her blonde companion with a questioning look. 

‘I had to palm it into his glass remember?’ said Barbe testily. ‘You were right – he is a suspicious man! He insisted I drink from his glass first.’ Aggravated, she poked the unconscious man’s chest.

‘Naughty!’ she told him sternly, ‘see what has become of you? I had to guess how much.’ If he was dead, it was his own fault. 

The door opened and a third woman entered stirring a mixture in a bowl. Justine wrinkled her nose, ‘what is in that?’ she asked, ‘it smells like dead animal.’

Varenne grinned and kept stirring, ’only a tiny part and all you need to know is that it works - or at least it did on my Marquis. He was stiff as a board and waddling for an entire day!’ They giggled at the image of the old man.

‘His mistress must have almost expired from exhaustion,’ commented Barbe sympathetically, ‘his wife should send the poor woman a gift for her own deliverance!’ The women laughed together. 

A knock at the door and Mathias poked his head into the room, ‘ladies,’ he said with a naughty grin, ‘having fun in here?’ Justine swung her hips suggestively as she walked over to him and leaned up into him, her fingers trailing down the front of his breeches. His eyes gleamed suggestively as his body responded to her touch.

‘Oh my,’ she exclaimed her eyes widening in feigned amazement, ‘I don’t think you need what we are brewing for our friend.’ He wrapped a brawny arm around her waist, ‘saucy woman! You and I will have some amusement later,’ he promised and planted a kiss on her laughing mouth.  


He waved a small blue rectangle of fabric at her and a container and artist’s brush. ‘Remember what to do with these?’

>

The two young laundresses stood close together in the early morning light. They were laughing quietly, their hands covering their mouths trying not to make too much noise. They leaned against each other in guilty conspiracy – they knew they should not be here, but how could they resist this titillating and amusing sight that lay before them.

Suddenly the sounds of men stirring from the barracks began to fill the yard. Several guards emerged from the guard’s mess and rounded the corner of the building, ‘you there!’ one of them called out, ‘what are you staring at?’

The laundresses looked at each other and burst out laughing, ‘a decorated soldier,’ called one of the young women with a saucy air and a toss of her head. The two young laundresses grabbed the tongue of their laundry cart and hauled it as fast as they could away from the prone figure in the middle of the yard and from the guard who was advancing toward them.

‘What the….’ they glanced uncertainly at each other, frowning and slowing their step as he got nearer. They stopped some distance as they recognized the man. For a moment there was no sound as they stared in shock at the man slumbering in the middle of the barracks’ yard of the Queen’s guard. He was sound asleep, sprawled against the base of a stone fountain in which the reclining muscular figure of Neptune was adorned with pieces of his uniform. He was snoring loudly - as though he was ensconced in his own bedchamber, peaceably content to be sleeping off the previous night’s bacchanal. A few guffaws expanded to loud chuckles and as more men poured into the yard soon the air was ringing with hilarious laughter at the ignominious state of the slumbering man.

Naked as the day he was born lay the Queen’s favorite – Lieutenant Comminges. Lying on his back arms spread wide he slept in innocence of his disgrace. Waving a salute in rhythm with his snoring was a small blue flag, tied along the length of his fully erect manhood, and painted on his shaved chest and torso - ‘a salute from Her Majesty’s most devoted servant.’ 

>

_Earlier that same day…._

Comminges kicked open the door to the guard’s mess and pulled off his gloves. He surveyed the crowded room with an air of satisfaction. Men seated at the tables or standing in groups fell silent as they turned to watch him enter. He was followed by several of his men who moved to a table and shouted for the serving girl. They were laughing. They never tired of telling and re-telling the story of stopping the carriage of the Duchess de la Croix, beating her servants and the Lieutenant forcing Grimaud’s wife to her knees at his feet. The daughter had been an unexpected prize.

He had no doubt Grimaud would come for him – how could he not? But he was prepared. When Grimaud tried to strike at him – he would be ready. The Queen would have what she wanted most – Grimaud’s head on a pike and he would have what he wanted most – D’Artagnan’s position as Captain. Then he would deal with the interfering Musketeer.

Two women entered the room, moving languidly among the tables. They were young and very beautiful, dressed in richly colored dresses with deep décolletage exposing a great deal of creamy soft skin and other assets to best advantage. One was fair haired and the other with raven locks - both with jewels glittering in their elegantly arranged hair. Men turned to call out and watched them weave their way through the large hall – they were looking for someone. One lay a hand on the arm of her companion and whispered in her ear. They both turned to look at Comminges.

They walked toward him with provocative smiles and his hand holding his tankard of ale stopped halfway to his mouth. They reached his table, one circling behind him and one approaching him to lean seductively over him affording a clear view down her bodice. He stared there first and then raised his uncomprehending eyes to hers – his mouth slack.

‘M Comminges,’ the fair-haired woman traced her finger along his jaw and down his neck. The dark-haired woman leaned over him her soft bosom pressed against him. He breathed in their intoxicating scents of perfume, creams and Woman – and almost closed his eyes in drugged and debauched delight.

‘We bring an invitation to you,’ said the dark-haired beauty. ‘A little party – not far to go. A gift from an admirer.’

‘Who has sent me this invitation?’ he wasn’t going into the alley to receive his ‘gifts’. He grabbed her chin with his hand and held it in a painful grip, sneering in satisfaction at the startled fear that came into her eyes.

The fair-haired girl leaned closer him, her finger trailing over his tunic and down, ‘you are famous M, and a special guest of our lady.’ She leaned closer and whispered the name of her Madame in his ear. He sucked in his breath. He knew the house – frequented by wealthy patrons and even courtiers. He had never been there – indeed the clientele was so select that he may not have been admitted. But now – he was invited!

He stood squaring his shoulders and straightening his tunic. He gave an expansive wave of his hand, ‘lead the way my beauties,’ and he laughed at this unexpected turn of fortune for him. Let Grimaud plot to kill him – he would fail. Tonight however, he would enjoy what would soon become commonplace for him – beautiful women and interesting erotic specialties in one of the most exclusive brothels in Paris. M Grimaud would never darken the door of such an establishment. The whores on the street were for the likes of him. He laughed to himself - maybe that’s where his wife would end up – when the Queen executed him and took her lands and titles.

With a woman on either side of him, holding his arm and looking up at him worshipful – he sauntered from the mess and out into the night.

>

Friquet felt a burst of pride as he tucked himself away in the shadows next to the tall building. M Grimaud would be proud of him. He had not been caught yet and he had been following the Cousins all the way from the barracks and the officers mess. M Grimaud called them the Cousins because they, along with Martin and Gunther – the Brothers - were related through their fathers - a legendary family of fearsome mercenaries. And he had finally managed to evade their discovery of him.

For several days before now he had tailed the mercenaries as they bothered and harassed the Queen’s officer - Lieutenant Comminges. He followed Jasper into the tavern where he deliberately jostled the lieutenant into spilling ale over himself.

‘You dolt!’ shouted Comminges, as the large man, apologizing profusely in a gutteral foreign language smacked at him hard to wipe the ale away. The officer staggered under the weight of those slapping hands.

He slipped into the tavern near the Port St Paul to follow Adolph, drunk and boisterous, watching him trip and fall into their gaming table, knocking Comminges to the floor amid scattering cards and coin. Chaos erupted as bawds, serving girls and drunken men dived for coins rolling around the floor and overturning more tables in the process, slipping and sliding in the spilled ale and wine.

‘My money,’ roared Comminges as fights broke out and Comminges went down in a pile of men as he tried to free himself and save his money.

He ran after them and hid behind trees when they rode their horses in a wild horse race as the Queen’s guard patrolled the streets. Startled horses bolted and Comminges was dislodged from his saddle landing awkwardly in a pile of muck and mud.

And at every one of these occasions the mercenaries had caught him and sternly ordered him to depart.

‘A good soldier follows orders,’ Mathias chastised him firmly. ‘You know M Grimaud’s orders Friquet. The streets are very dangerous now – there are slavers in Paris.’ The big mercenary took the boy by the arms and lifted him to the level of his harsh bearded face, ‘they steal children!’ he thundered ominously. Friquet sniffed, ‘I am not a child!’ he declared angrily.

The big man laughed and set him down, ‘go to Flea or your grandmother,’ he ordered and pushed him away.

Now he had successfully gone undetected. M Grimaud would be proud of his skills! He stayed in the shadows as the Lieutenant left the barracks with the two bawds on his arms. The mercenaries walked jauntily some distance behind them drinking and passing several flasks between them. They were singing lustily and smirking at any woman they passed.

Friquet peeked around the building and jerked back quickly, holding himself still and close to the shadowed wall. He tried not to breathe too deeply – the street was reeking, the near constant drizzle mixing the muck and the mud into a noxious sludge. Dark buildings leaned precariously toward each other and toward the street allowing the thinnest slices of moonlight to light the way. The men ambled past the alleyway talking among themselves in deep accented voices. Abruptly, the man they were following turned and shouted at them.

‘How dare you continue this charade!’ Comminges bellowed indignantly. ‘You will cease this at once!’ He shook his fist menacingly, ‘tell Grimaud to go to hell!’

The men paused exchanging confused glances raising their hands pleadingly. They answered in apologetic tones, ‘Es tut uns leid! Wir meinen keinen Schaden.‘

`What are they saying my lord?‘ giggled one of the buxom bawds on his arm. `How the hell should I know,‘ grumbled Comminges. The women giggled again winking at the herd of handsome men ambling along the street behind them. The men rumbled in appreciation and grinned, shaking their hips suggestively.

Comminges barked angrily, `come along!‘ and yanked their arms cruelly to drag them with him.

Friquet laughed to himself and waited another moment before venturing from the safety of the shadows. He stepped quietly into the street to follow the mercenaries only to bang into a Teutonic wall of hard muscle. He had run smack into one of the Cousins. The mercenary was leaning against the side of the building arms crossed over his massive chest and waiting for him. He put a thick sausage of a finger against the boy’s forehead and tapped it.

‘What are you doing here Friquet?’ asked the mercenary in a heavily accented disapproving voice.

‘I wasn’t following you!’ retorted Friquet willing himself to stillness lest he flinch from the strong finger tapping against his head – painfully. ‘I was just watching – as M Grimaud told me,’ he said defiantly. After all –he was – as M Grimaud had said - his eyes and ears in the city. He had watched the actress and told M Grimaud of her death. He had told M Grimaud about the black carriage. He was doing his job!

‘M Grimaud,’ Mathias leaned closer to the boy, the better to get his full attention, ‘told you to stay out of this neighborhood and I told you not to follow us. It is a foul place and this street the worst – you cannot be here!’ He tapped Friquet’s head again – harder than the first time.

‘But…’ protested Friquet,’I am not a child and M Grimaud…’

Suddenly, three more gigantic men loomed up behind Mathias. ‘Was ist das? ‘ they exclaimed as one.

‘Was M Grimaud’s orders not clear?’ Mathias was not asking a question, ‘stay away from M Comminges, stay away from Montorguei and you are not to follow us!’ the mercenary’s voice was harsh and angry.

Friquet looked mulish but knew better than to say anything. Mathias gave his shoulder a little shake, ‘Friquet – do you understand? You either stay with Flea or your grandmother.’

Behind Mathias stood Adolph, Johann and Jasper – their belts crossed over large muscular chests and adorned with pistols, daggers and rapiers. The men stood with casual grace, hands to their hips – warriors of immense strength and fighting ability. Friquet saw them glance at him with barely restrained annoyance. He wriggled helplessly in the mercenary’s firm grip and held back his tears. He felt humiliated to be so easily restrained. He only wanted to help! He was one of M Grimaud’s men and could help them! He was more than a skinny boy.

`Friquet!‘ cried Jasper, his beard wiggling furiously as did the caterpillars that served as eyebrows over his deep set blue eyes.

`Time to go home to Oma! Go now,‘ and he gave the boy a gentle push back down the street he came. 

`Go on – back to grandma,‘ they shooed him away laughing softly. `We will see you later at Flea’s,‘ they promised as recompense.

>

_Marseille – the same night_

_The tunnel was arched high into the rock, its walls burning red with fire flaring high to its bowed ceiling. He could hear the child crying somewhere deep into the cave beyond. Fury raced through him and he bared his teeth at the roaring flames and pulled his sword. Men rushed him and he fought furiously, slashing necks, plunging the blade deep into their chests their bodies dissipating into black smoke and drifting away. He heard mocking laughter and he fought on toward the cries that beckoned him, deeper and deeper in the red cave. The heat was oppressive, he could barely draw breath and his arm was heavy. Where are you? he shouted, and he fought on and on swinging his sword killing and creating more smoke men and on and on until he was stumbling and falling to his knees unable to lift his sword or take a breath. Where are you? he whispered as flames closed over him and he smelled the sickly-sweet scent of his own flesh burning…._

He lunged to the edge of the bed and retched into the bucket gasping for air. He lowered his body to the floor and pressed his cheek and body against the cool tiles. He lay there waiting for his heart to slow and his breathing to steady. He rolled to his back staring at the ceiling. What was happening to him? He felt a wetness on his cheeks. Sophia, he begged…tears rolled from his eyes…Sophia…

>

The tavern was quiet as men played cards or sat in groups listening to the woman singing. It was a familiar song one he had heard years ago. It brought back memories of warm nights and a woman’s form shaped against him, silky hair splayed across his chest and arms. She had liked to sing too. It had been a simpler time, he was young and fearless, hungry for adventure, hard work by day and easy comraderie by night. No cursed nightmares of fire, violent death, and crying children he could not save to torment his sleep and plague his mind.

Cool fingers traced a line along his hand. He tilted his head to look into deep brown eyes, small beguiling freckles scattered across fair skin and hair of red, gold and copper spilling over her shoulders.

‘Lucien,’ she had a smoky voice, ‘you are here.’ His eyes traveled over her face, remembering the slope of her soft shoulders, his hands buried in her silky hair, the curve of her waist and flare of her hip, the feel of her under him. He saw his hand take a strand of her hair between his fingers – it’s like the sunset – did he said it aloud or only in his memory?

‘Madeleine,’ he acknowledged and met her eyes with resigned understanding and prophetic regret.

She took his hand and tugged gently. ‘Come with me,’ she whispered. He studied her long slender fingers covering his large calloused hand. He shook his head slightly, ‘I do not know myself.’

She could barely hear him. She knelt next to him and stroked his cheek gently, ‘I know you.’

‘Lucien - come with me,’ and he let her lead him away.


	88. The Street at The End of The World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friquet decides to prove himself.   
> The next morning after de Comminges' attack Athos bids his son and his friends farewell.   
> M. de Thierry receives a mysterious gift

**Author: Mordaunt**

_Data fata secutus*_

_(Virgil, Aeneid, Line 382)_

> _Friquet kicked his feet in the deep mud, sulking: “Go home to your grandmother!” he repeated imitating Flea’s voice. It was a chilly night. The street reeked. Human and animal waste, and the debris from tanneries and butcher shops had turned into a red muddy slush after the recent rainstorms._ _They all treated him like some stupid child: “Go home to your grandmother!” As if he was not a lieutenant in the army of the people! As if he was not the General of the Streets in the uprising. He turned towards a street off the Rue Montorgueil instead of walking towards Les Halles, the way to his grandmother’s house._
> 
> _They called it the” Street at the End of the World”… (1)_
> 
>  

Porthos’ horse neighs and skids on the paved courtyard of the Garrison as he pulls the reins. He jumps from the saddle and hurries to d’ Artagnan’s office. “De Comminges! That viper! Were Constance or Alexandre hurt?” He embraces his friend. “No one was hurt,” d’ Artagnan replies with a smile, “except perhaps de Comminges’ pride.”

“Athos, my friend!” Porthos exclaims, extending his hand. “I am glad to see you safe! The secret is out, that an English envoy is protected in the Musketeer Garrison. M. Le Tellier (2) confided the news this morning at the meeting of the War Council. That was even before you had the audience with her Majesty, d’ Artagnan! Athos, you cannot remain here,” he cautions. “We must move you as fast as possible. I have ensured a hideout…”

“No,” Athos replies quietly. “I must leave this very night. It is no longer safe for any of you.”

“What about Raoul?” d’ Artagnan inquires.

“Raoul cannot leave Paris,” Porthos interjects.

“You know about His Majesty’s letter too? Are there no secrets in Paris?” Athos sounds annoyed.

“I know nothing about any letter, my friend,” Porthos replies ignoring Athos’ tone. He pats Athos on the back instead, and fills two glasses of wine one for himself and one for d’ Artagnan. “I know that the orders since this morning are to have all regiments ready to join M. le Prince at Flanders immediately after His Majesty’s visit to his uncle. That is less than a month from today. Raoul is still my aide-de-camp, unless of course, His Majesty decides otherwise.”

“What will you fight with?” d’ Artagnan sounds perplexed. “The Arsenal is empty.”

“It is empty no longer,” Porthos retorts sipping from his glass, a mischievous glimmer in his eyes.

“What do you mean?” Athos gasps.

“I mean, that as of two nights ago, we have almost everything back.”

“Almost?” d’ Artagnan sounds aghast.

“One cannon is still missing,” Porthos intones impishly, and Athos begins to laugh.

D’ Artagnan glowers at his two friends. He is not at all entertained. “Grimaud has some nerve,” Athos interjects, “we should give him that d’ Artagnan!”

“I warned his wife when she came here,” d’ Artagnan says. “I thought I owed her that courtesy. I told her to get her husband out of Paris, and make him return the stolen weapons. _All_ _the weapon_ s!”

“He needs some kind of leverage, d’ Artagnan,” Athos explains. “I am not taking his side, mind you,” he adds quickly. “But that is the way Grimaud acts when he is cornered.”

“He returned a cart full of baked bread too,” Porthos intones, and d’ Artagnan springs from his chair enraged. “He is mocking us!” he exclaims.

“He is provoking you,” Athos interjects. “Sit down, my friend,” he proposes calmly, leaning towards d’ Artagnan. “Ask yourself if it is worth being provoked. If at this point, and given what’s at stake, any of Grimaud’s actions are worth worrying about.”

“Athos is right,” Porthos says. “We have our weapons. Let him keep his cannon. He is no longer in Paris. He no longer controls the streets.”

D’ Artagnan walks to his chair, with his hands to his hips. “I am not at all sure that Grimaud does not still control the streets!” he says.

************************

> _Friquet had no intention of going to his grandmother’s house at the Rue Cocatrix. Nothing happened there: only old pious people came to visit M. Broussel and his wife. Friquet preferred places where things were happening. Like this place!  The Street at the End of the World, was where M. Grimaud ambushed the pirate Bonnaire who carried an enormous bag of pearls. “You could become my ears and eyes one day!” the King of Paris had promised Friquet before he left the city. What if he could discover the pirates that attacked the Lieutenant of the Musketeers and M. Grimaud? Wouldn’t that make him indispensable? M. Grimaud would accept him among his men then!_

 

Athos sets the letter with the royal seal on the table, crossing his hands in front of his chest. “His Majesty leaves you few options Raoul,” he admits. Father and son find themselves in Raoul’s room in the Garrison. It is past midday. 

“I know, Monsieur,” Raoul replies. He sounds resolute, Athos notices, and determined. “For a long time, I wondered what His Majesty’s order means for me,” the young man continues, voicing his father’s thoughts. “What kind of man sacrifices his chance to restore his good name so that he can serve the whims of a King? I fear this question concerns you now as much as it concerned me back then. But it should not…” Athos raises an inquisitive eyebrow. Raoul continues noting his father’s disbelief. “I wrote to my mother first,” he says quietly. “Can you guess her answer, Monsieur?”

Athos knows Alessandra has little regard for rank, titles, queens, and kings. She has little regard for elevated notions of nobility too. But their son’s good name is something she has protected all her life. “To ignore the King and return home to Venice?” Athos ventures.

“That is what I also thought she would advise me, Monsieur,” Raoul asserts. “But here is what she writes instead.” He pulls a letter from his doublet and reads:

> _“Honors and titles are bestowed by Kings, Raoul. But your honor and your good name are what you make of yourself. You are noble not because of your family or the titles you inherited, and those that may be given to you at the whim of a monarch. You are noble because of your actions…”_

Athos could not have phrased it better. She has a way of catching him by surprise, of voicing his innermost thoughts, of reading his mind. He misses her. He longs to hold her. How can he doubt her? How could he ever have doubted her in the past? “Your mother’s advice is the same as mine,” Athos asserts.

“In a way, my friends’ advice was the same also,” Raoul continues. “Not, M. de Guiche. He is a good friend but not very wise!” he says, anticipating his father’s question. “I mean my three wisest friends: M. de Rohan, M. de Thierry, and M. de Marchal."

Athos chuckles, his tone playful: “do they know you think them wise?”

“No! and you are not to reveal that or I will be teased for life,” Raoul sounds concerned. “What they proposed was the simplest solution to this dilemma. It was M. de Thierry who thought it first.”

Of course, it was de Thierry, Athos thinks. He smiles. “I am not surprised,” he remarks.

“It does not matter any longer, Monsieur, if I remain tethered to the whims of a demanding King or if I follow General Vallon in Flanders as his aide-de-camp. Who I am from now on is determined by something greater than all this. Something I now share with you also.” The young man stands and walks up to his father. Athos understands exactly what Raoul means. He too stands up and places his hands on Raoul’s shoulders. “You have taken the oath,” he says. His voice quivers, full of emotion. Raoul nods with a smile.

“Then there is no longer anything to fear, Raoul,” Athos intones with great pride. “It matters little where you find yourself or where you will be. Your path is now clear. One for All…”

“…And All for One,” Raoul adds, embracing his father.

 ********************

> _The Street at the End of the World seemed longer at night, its edge lost in the pitch dark as if there was no end to it. It felt quiet too, only beggars sleeping at doorways and a group of drunks and harlots trudging towards Flea’s at the Court of Miracles bellowing some made-up song about pinching a virgin’s bum. “Give us a kiss, love!” one of the women shouted at Friquet and her companions roared with laughter. Friquet smiled as he passed them by. “He is too young!” one of the men hollered and another woman answered: “She likes them young!” Her words made the company laugh, and she began to sing a new song about old bawds and young lovers in a hoarse, drunken voice._

 

Athos kisses Constance’s hands. “I owe you everything,” he says. She smiles but there are tears in her eyes. “Please be careful!” she entreats him and before Athos knows it he finds himself in her embrace. “Please don’t get yourself killed tonight!” she whispers. He cups her face with both his hands. “I promise you that I will not be killed. No one will be hurt!” he says as he kisses her forehead. “Keep yourself safe and take care of that reckless young man, your husband!” he adds, turning his head towards d’ Artagnan, who also opens his arms to his old friend. “Take care young man,” Athos says and they both laugh. “You too, old scoundrel!” Athos exclaims, embracing Porthos, whose eyes are full of tears. There is no heart more loyal nor an embrace more warm than that of Porthos.

Athos stands back. “I hope we meet again,” he says opening the door. “I hope when we do, Aramis can be with us finally, both in spirit and in person.”

He puts on his hat and gloves, and he quickly descends the staircase to the courtyard. By the time he meets Raoul he is poised again. “M. de Rohan, M. de Thierry, and M. Marchal are waiting for you at the stables,” Raoul explains. “The Captain thinks it’s best if I do not accompany you tonight. We look like father and son. I could compromise you. You are supposed to be Lord de Winter.”

“I should remember to speak bad French,” Athos smiles. “Any messages for your mother?”

“Tell my mother, I will do anything to get to Bragelonne to see her and my sister. I promise her that. I promise you that…” Raoul’s voice quivers but he collects himself before he continues. “Tell her I am well. Tell her that I think of her always. And you…” his voice breaks again. He exhales attempting to remain as composed as his father.

 “You and I are more than father and son now, Raoul.” Athos declares. “We are, and will always be together, even when we are away from each other. Let us therefore not bid each other farewell.”

***********************

> _Friquet walked further down the dark winding street, his steps muffled in the deep mud. Alongside the road the crumbling dilapidated houses leaned precariously, one against the other, leaving narrow gaping alleyways between them. They looked empty but Friquet knew that this was where one could hide all sorts of secrets: every morning there was always a body or two to be discovered. He moved towards the house where M. Grimaud ambushed the pirate Bonnaire. It was not just any house. The building belonged to Madame Delaporte (3), who could see visions in water and foretell death. She made her living selling potions and powders for all sorts of purposes: to remove red marks from the skin, help hair grow, cure vertigo, ease the pains of childbirth, increase the appetite for love, and, if necessary, dispose of anyone her clients desired. She was known to take care of other matters too, more delicate, something to do with the honor of ladies, but Friquet could never understand what that was all about._
> 
>  

Athos finds de Rohan, de Thierry, and Marchal waiting at the stables. They are not wearing their Musketeer uniforms and they are armed to the teeth. They look a lot like the men who attacked him outside St. Germain l’Auxerrois the night before, including scarfs around their necks, with which they plan to mask their faces.

“We ride from here towards the Rue Montorgueil and then along the Rue Petits Carreaux to the Porte St. Anne,” M. de Rohan explains. “It’s a small gate that is kept closed with a single chain. We can break it open. No one wants to be at that part of the city especially at night. There is only one guard stationed right outside the walls at the Chateau Frilleux. It is not perhaps the safest part of Paris, but it is the safest route out of the city. We must assume that de Comminges has placed men at every major city gate. 

“You think four horsemen will not be noticed at night in Montorgueil?” Athos interjects.

“They will,” M. Marchal replies. “But we look like the kind of horsemen any witness would prefer not to have noticed. I recommend we cover our faces the moment we enter Montorgueil.”

“We may have to,” M. de Thierry scoffs. “The stench in that part of town is unbearable.”

It’s a simple plan, and straightforward. “Good luck to all of us Messieurs,” Athos says leading his horse out of the stables. The other three follow behind him.

********************

> _Friquet walked towards Madame Delaporte’s house, wondering if he may be lucky again, just like a few nights before when he spotted Bonnaire. He could imagine himself standing in Flea’s tavern and telling her and M. Grimaud all he had uncovered. No one would treat him like some stupid child ever again. Something dark blocked the road ahead: a black carriage was stopped in the middle of the dark street, right outside Delaporte’s house. Friquet walked silently behind it, concealed in the shadows. There were no footmen at the back, just the coachman at the front. The carriage door opened suddenly and a cloaked figure stepped out: a woman. Perhaps something to do with the honor of ladies, Friquet thought, crouching between the back of the carriage and the wheels, curious to find out more. She lifted her skirts seemingly disgusted by the mud on the street, and turned her head to speak to the coachman. “Wait here Rouge,” she said, and that is when Friquet saw her face, pale and beautiful like an angel. She saw him too…_

 

“M. de Thierry!” one of the recruits stops the young Musketeer on his way to the gate. “This just arrived for you,” he says handing M. de Thierry a small carved box intricately decorated with mother of pearl.

“Who brought this?” M. de Thierry is confounded. He has never received anything from anyone his entire life. “I don’t know, Monsieur,” the recruit shrugs. “Someone left it at the gate for you. There was no letter or message. Just this box.”

“Thank you, M. Bennart,” M. de Thierry says, and opens the box as he slowly reins his horse towards the gate. It is a peculiar little object that he finds inside. He stops for a moment so that he can look at it better under the lantern that lights the courtyard at night. It appears to be a fine broach made of a hard, orange-red colored stone. He has seen this stone before at court. They call it precious coral. One side of it is delicately carved with an image of a man dressed like an ancient warrior, his sword drawn defending a woman chained to a rock. He holds something in his other hand: a severed head with snakes instead of hair. M. de Thierry knows this story. He read it long ago, with Madame Ninon, but it is also a favorite at court. Perseus saving Andromeda with the severed head of the Medusa. Who would send him this, and why? He turns the broach on the other side. He feels there is something at the back, an etching or a carving that he cannot easily see. He stops and holds the fine delicate broach to the lantern light. There is an inscription indeed. It says:

> _“March 23, 1649, midnight.”_

In exactly four hours.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES  
> * Translation: Following what is decreed by fate. 
> 
> (1) La rue au bout du monde (the street at the end of the world), was an infamous street at Montorgueil. It led directly to the entrance of the Court of Miracles. 
> 
> (2) Michel Le Tellier, marquis de Barbezieux, seigneur de Chaville et de Viroflay (19 April 1603 – 30 October 1685). In 1643, owing to his friendship with Cardinal Mazarin, he became Secretary of State for Military Affairs (known as 'Secretary of State for War'). 
> 
> (3) Marguerite Delaporte (1610 – after 1682) was a professional French poisoner and fortune-teller. She was one of the people accused in the (in) famous (and much later) Affair of the Poisons. She was known for her ability to see the future in a glass of water and predict death.


	89. Death's Carriage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dangerous escape  
> A deadly vision  
> A death

**Author: Mordaunt**

_Un bandeau de fureur épais presse mes yeux_  
_Qui ne discernent plus le danger ni la voie,_  
_Mais ils vont effrayant de leur regard les lieux_  
_Où se trame ma mort, et ma présence effraie  
_ _Ce qu'embrassent la terre et la voûte des cieux.(1)_

_(Agrippa d’ Aubigne, 1552-1630, Stances : À longs filets de sang ce lamentable corps.)_

They bring their horses to a canter, hats lowered to keep their faces concealed. It is a moonless night, clouded, the threat of another thunderstorm in the distance. They follow backstreets, avoiding les Halles. Once they turn onto the Rue Montgreuil they mask their faces with their scarfs and put their horses to a gallop. The few people they meet on their way, prostitutes, drunks, and beggars, step aside for the small cavalry to pass. M. Marchal was right: they are ominous, the sort of people no witness will ever admit they have encountered and would rather forget.

It does not take long to reach the Rue des Poissonniers, where many years ago Pinchar and Rato used to taunt old fish-stink Pascal. Not much has changed, including the stench from rotting fish. The market is empty at this time of the night, rats, stray dogs and cats seeking food among the piled trash. There is something in the air besides the stench: lingering traces of something old and familiar that M. de Thierry refuses to remember. “ _Old fish-stink Pascal fishes in the sewers!”_ Rato’s voice sings in M. de Thierry’s mind but he pushes the memory away, pressing his horse along with his comrades towards the city walls.

The small gate of St. Anne is closed. It’s just an arched opening made with an assortment of ancient mismatched masonry, its old decaying wooden doors kept together with a rusting chain. Rotting fish coffins and baskets are stacked on either side. The place is now used by vendors and fishmongers as a makeshift open storeroom. M. de Rohan picks a steel bar from the side of his saddle and walks to the gate. It takes very little effort to break the old chain. He pushes the creaking door open and silently invites his comrades to ride through. They cross a small crumbling bridge over the moat and arrive to the Château Frilleau outside the walls, within minutes. It is not really a château. It’s just a modest stone cottage surrounded by open farmland, a neat small vineyard at its side, framed by narrow alleys of acacias and chestnut trees. Unlike the city behind the walls, the air here is fragrant, a fresh cold wind blowing every now and then bringing with it the scent of impending rain and the roaring of distant thunder.  The château is dark, but for a flickering light in the front room. M. de Rohan was right. There is a guard here. They do not slow their horses however, prepared to rush by, ignoring him.

“Who goes there?” the guard yells, boldly dashing to the road ready to meet the small troop head on, pistol in hand. M. de Rohan pulls the reins of his horse, deciding not trample over the man. His horse almost skids on the graveled path. “Let us pass,” he threatens, his accent altered and his face masked. He extends his pistol. The guard is young, a member of M. the Coadjutor’s militia. His hand trembles slightly but he stands determined to stop this troop of foreign brigands. “Let us pass or you die here,” M. Marchal echoes M. de Rohan, his tone even more threatening, his accent also altered.  

“You are the only ones who will die here,” a sonorous voice replies from the darkness. They hear horses snorting and the scratching sound of hooves against the gravel. A small troop of ten Guards emerges from the shadows at the opposite side of the road. “Going somewhere?” their leader growls from his horse uncocking his pistol. M. de Thierry recognizes him. He is Vigneron, one of de Comminges’ commanders.

“Yes,” M. de Rohan exclaims, "and you are in our way!” He signals his comrades to push their horses forward drawing their swords. Vigneron’s men do the same.

“Remain behind us, Captain,” M. de Thierry whispers to Athos. This time, M. de Thierry knows he will neither be caught off-guard nor hesitate. The two small troops clash violently, horseman against horseman, sword meeting sword and flesh. Despite the darkness M. de Thierry is certain his opponent is a lumbering, corporeal man: stronger but slow to react. _“Never underestimate your opponent!”_ Captain de la Fére’s voice echoes in M. de Thierry’s mind, alongside another, less forgiving voice: _“Use what you have!”_ Lucien Grimaud growls. The Guard fights hard with an arm of steel. The Musketeer knows he cannot sustain a direct attack on his saddle against an opponent this strong. It is easy for someone as nimble as M. de Thierry to parry even when seated on a saddle, but it is not easy to sneak a winning thrust with his sword at this distance. M. de Thierry knows that his advantage lies elsewhere. He decides his course of action in seconds, forcing his opponent to turn his horse just close enough for him to jump onto the back of the saddle and thrust his dagger into the man’s side. Not exactly a Musketeer move, but a winning one.

He pushes the guard off the horse realizing that he has the advantage of an extra pair of pistols, hanging on either side of the saddle. He picks up the reins and turns the horse around as the fight rages. So far four guards are on the ground, dead or wounded, and two have lost their horses, one of them Vigneron. M. Marchal is valiantly facing two opponents, so M. de Thierry decides to even his friend’s odds. It is dark but darkness has never been an impediment to M. de Thierry; quite the opposite. One of the two guards fighting against M. Marchal, raises his arm, sword in hand, attempting to attack from the back. M. de Thierry pulls out a pistol from the holster and takes aim. From this angle the guard’s right arm is entirely exposed. “Great shot!” he hears M. Marchal’s voice from the other side of the battlefield as his opponent gasps and falls from his horse.

A sudden tug and M. de Thierry almost loses his balance. One of the guards, who has lost his horse, attempts to pull him down too. M. de Thierry shoves the iron handle of the pistol into the man’s face, and the guard yells in pain and backs away covering his eyes. It’s Captain de la Fére who faces two opponents now. The young Musketeer prepares to shoot one of them but the Captain is faster with his pistol. Only two guards are left on horseback to fight against M. Marchal and the Captain. Good odds, M. de Thierry reckons.

He turns his horse around to the sound of clanging metal. M. de Rohan is on his feet in the middle of the road, fighting against Vigneron. It’s a bitter fight, and M. de Rohan was injured only three days earlier. Should he shoot Vigneron, who is not on horseback? Is this a time to be noble? No matter how much M. de Thierry wants to act as a Musketeer, it is Lucien Grimaud’s advice that prevails: _“Use what you have!”_ Perhaps it is the fact that he is dressed like a pirate, M. de Thierry tells himself. He aims his pistol at Vigneron but the fight is too close and it is difficult to get a clear shot. “Damn it!” he curses, jumping from the horse. He draws his sword. “Hey you!” he yells at Vigneron, who turns just as M. de Rohan collapses on the ground. “Don’t kill him!” M. de Rohan exclaims trying to catch his breath. Vigneron is a difficult opponent, powerful and blunt. “You think yourself clever, thief?” the guard growls. “Prepare to die in the hands of Her Majesty’s Guards!” He attacks sideways but M. de Thierry parries sliding behind him. Keep him busy on his feet, he decides. Get him exhausted. “You are a slippery dog!” Vigneron grunts eager to provoke, but M. de Thierry refuses to be provoked this time. Instead, he fights in silence, engaging his opponent from all sides. He can tell that Vigneron is increasingly off balance, cursing, and confused, unable to predict the next attack. That is exactly where M. de Thierry wants his opponent to be. “You should follow the example of your cowardly accomplice and give up!” Vigneron snarls, frustrated.

“You should never have said that,” M. de Rohan replies right behind him. He is on his feet again, his strength having returned after that brief repose. It takes just three moves and Vigneron lies on the ground, his side pierced by M. de Rohan’s blade.

M. de Thierry realizes the clanging of swords has ceased. He turns around. M. Marchal and Captain de la Fére are still on their horses and the road is covered with the bodies of guards, some dead, others wounded, a few of the orphaned horses having galloped away spooked, and the rest lingering around neighing and kicking their legs on the graveled road. He grabs the reins of his own horse, and jumps onto the saddle. M. de Rohan does the same. “A fight with the Queen’s Guards,” M. Marchal observes, “was long overdue. Unfortunately, they can never know who their real opponents were…”

“And we should keep it that way,” M. de Rohan admonishes. Somewhere behind them, a horse neighs. They can hear shuffling sounds too, as if someone is trying to steal away: the young militia guard, they suddenly realize! The boy turns his terrified face towards them fumbling to climb onto the saddle of an orphaned horse that is spooked and kicks back, irritated.  “Stop!” M. de Rohan exclaims, “we do not want to hurt you!” But the young man insists, climbing onto the saddle and pressing the horse towards the city.

“We must stop him!” M. Marchal exclaims. 

“Can you do that without killing him, de Thierry?” M. de Rohan inquires.

M. de Thierry nods silently. He exhales and takes aim. The bullet finds the young man’s shoulder. He keeps galloping for a little longer, his form shaky on the saddle, and then leans forward, senseless, as the horse begins to slow down, stopping midway.

“We do not have much time,” Athos remarks. “I am forever indebted to you, Messieurs!”

“It is our duty!” M. de Rohan says. “All for One,” he adds bowing his head to the Captain.

“One for All,” Athos replies touching the brim of his hat. He turns his horse and disappears into the night towards the road to Calais. His plan is the same as before: travel that road for a day pretending to be Lord de Winter to distract any spies, and on the first night change his course towards Blois.

The three young Musketeers, now wearing their pauldrons, their faces unmasked, press their horses through winding country roads, towards St. Antoine, almost at the other side of the city walls; as far from St. Anne’s Gate as possible. At this time of the night, all city gates are closed but St. Antoine is well guarded by militia as well as by Guards and Musketeers. They expect to be allowed into the city without much questioning.

Thunder rumbles in the distance and every now and then streaks of jagged unearthly light illuminate the horizon. It is M. Marchal who sees it first. “M. de Rohan! M. de Thierry!” he yells from his horse. “Over there!” He signals further east, towards the Rue de Pepincourt outside the walls. There is nothing there, M. de Thierry thinks at first, but then a flash of pale light blankets the countryside around them. He sees it too: a black carriage darting along the road that leads to the gate of St. Antoine.  “We must catch up with it!” he exclaims pressing his horse forward. The other two have no time to argue. They turn their horses also, galloping along a country road that follows the city walls. It is a blind chase. When lighting ceases the night is too dark and their shadowy pray impossible to see. They turn their horses onto the Rue de Pepincourt just as lighting beaks the darkness one more time. The black carriage is still there, ahead of them, dashing towards the gate of St. Antoine. Darkness returns but only for a moment. The next bolt of light cleaves the night sky to reveal nothing at all. The road ahead of them is empty, as if the black carriage has disappeared in thin air. They slow down their horses.

“Did you see it, Lieutenant?” M. de Thierry repeats in breathless excitement.

“Where did it go?” M. Marchal exclaims turning his horse around. “There is nothing here! It is all open countryside! A carriage does not just vanish like this!”

“The guards think it is a phantom carriage,” M. de Thierry discloses finally, “because it disappears just as we witnessed. They call it Death’s Carriage. They say a guard from the St. Victor Gate died at the sight of it.”

“Well, we are all of us still here!” M. Marchal chuckles. M. de Rohan glowers at him and M. Marchal pauses, lowering his eyes. 

“There was nothing otherworldly about it,” M. de Rohan interposes, “until the moment it disappeared.”

“Exactly, Lieutenant,” M. de Thierry replies quietly. "That was my point! There is nothing otherworldly about it. So, where could someone hide a carriage around here?”

“There is nothing here at all,” M. Marchal muses. “No buildings, not even a shed…”

Lighting parts the sky once again and now the first drops of rain begin to fall. “We must get to St. Antoine!” M. de Rohan urges them on. They press their horses towards the gate, as the bells inside the city walls strike midnight.

********************

“Lieutenant de Rohan, and Messieurs de Thierry, and Marchal, returning from duty!” M. de Rohan repeats for the fifth time. He sounds irritated. The three of them stand for some time now right outside the gate at St. Antoine trying to shelter themselves from the downpour while the militia guards seem unable to decide if they should let them in. “What the hell is the matter?” M. de Rohan growls to the cowering guard through the rails. “Is M. Viel here?” he demands, knowing that M. Viel is the Musketeer on duty at the gate of St. Antoine.

“He was called back to your regiment, Lieutenant!” the man replies. “My apologies but we have to wait for M. Godier.”

“Godier? What does Godier have to say about letting us into the city?” M. de Rohan is enraged.

“He is M. de Comminges’ first officer,” the guard ventures, his voice trembling. “We have been ordered this last hour to let no one into the city without his approval. Perhaps it has to do with the incident…” he whispers confidentially.

M. de Rohan raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “What incident…?”

The guard looks around to make sure no one overhears him and then leans towards M. de Rohan in a conspiratorial tone. “My sister washes linens at the Louvre… She saw it with her very own eyes, Lieutenant! It was early this morning. M. de Comminges sleeping soundly by that fountain at the yard of his barracks, naked like the day he was born and quite excited if you get my meaning!” He winks and M. de Rohan gasps placing his hand on his mouth to muffle a chuckle. “Someone had shaved his chest too, and written on it!” the guard continues impishly. “My sister learned her letters unlike me, Lieutenant. She read it herself! It said…” He waves M. de Rohan closer to the rails and whispers it to his ear. M. de Rohan steps back and begins to laugh.

“Lieutenant, what is wrong?” M. de Thierry inquires anxiously. He looks serious. Too serious, M. de Rohan thinks as he tries to maintain his authoritative tone and suppress the image of a naked de Comminges sleeping under the fountain of Neptune in the yard of his own barracks. “We must wait for Godier… Ah!” he remarks, noticing the first officer of the Queen’s Guards arriving at the gate. “M. Godier! We are returning from duty late, I fear, and we must get to our Captain immediately!”

“You certainly do!” Godier interjects, his tone somber and curt. “Let them in!” he orders and the gate opens. “Well, thank God Her Majesty’s Guards are here to herd in stranded Musketeers!” Godier sniggers as they cross under the gate. “You need a better Captain!” he adds.

“Upstanding and erect like M. de Comminges no doubt!” M. de Rohan replies in the same tone, an impish glint in his blue eyes.

“Joke if you like, Lieutenant,” Godier snarls approaching M. de Rohan. “I suggest you hurry to your Garrison. Your Captain will need all the help he can get tonight!”

The grave warning in Godier’s voice does not go unnoticed. “We must hurry!” M. de Rohan urges his two comrades. “Something is very wrong!”

*******************

The rain has stopped by the time the reach the Louvre. The air is crisp and the sky is clear now, full of stars. An enormous crowd spreads all the way from the gate of the Garrison to the steps of St. Honoré, the Rue des Beux Enfants and the Rue des Petits Champs. Men, women, and children, all weeping and praying, some with candles, and others on their knees. “King’s Musketeers!” the three of them shout from their horses pushing their way to the Garrison. 

“Lieutenant! It’s good to have you all back!” M. Bennart declares the moment he sees them at the gate. He looks and sounds agitated. 

“What on earth is happening, M. Bennart?” M. de Rohan exclaims. “Is the Captain well? Where is he?”

“In the mess hall, Lieutenant. You are to go there immediately!” the young recruit advises.

It is not easy. The courtyard is teaming with Musketeers and recruits, all pushing against each other, trying to fit through the narrow door of the mess hall. “Stand aside! It’s an order!” M. de Rohan bellows and the crowd goes silent. “Let us pass!” the Lieutenant orders, his voice reverberating now in the courtyard. It makes no sense, M. de Rohan thinks. His men are always disciplined. These are hardened soldiers but as he passes by them he notices that they all look distraught and disconcerted. 

“M. de Rohan!” Raoul greets them at the door of the mess hall. “M. de Thierry! M. Marchal! It is a relief to see you back,” he says. He looks unusually pale, his once affable demeanor now solemn, his tone perturbed and uneasy.

“What is going on, Raoul?” M. de Rohan’s voice is full of anguish. “Where is the Captain?”

“Inside, Lieutenant,” Raoul replies tilting his head towards the room. He steps aside allowing M. de Rohan and M. Marchal through the door, but stops M. de Thierry: “I do not think you should go in there,” Raoul says quietly.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Bragelonne!” de Thierry exclaims pushing his friend aside. 

The mess hall is crowded, and lit with dozens of candles. The air is stale, almost suffocating. The Captain is there standing over one of the tables along with Madame d’ Artagnan who presses both her hands against her mouth as if to silence herself. She is sobbing. M. de Thierry pushes through the gathered Musketeers. He can see the surgeon too, his hands on his hips, his head drooping to his chest, looking dejected. M. de Thierry finally finds himself at the top of the gathered crowd, right behind M. de Rohan and M. Marchal. Someone is lying on that table. A dead woman? She is too small. A girl? She is dressed in a white silk gown, adorned with gold flowers… “Good God!” M. de Thierry hears M. Marchal exclaim as he stands back aghast. M. de Thierry slides by his comrade so that he can finally see. It is a strange feeling: As if time has suddenly stopped. As if the room is suddenly empty. The person on that table is not a girl, despite the silk gown. M. de Thierry knows those fiery red curls. He knows that freckled face too, that used to grin proudly, all teeth: _“I am Lieutenant in M. the Coadjutors army!”_ he used to boast, dragging a musket twice his size behind him. M. de Thierry knows the child that lies dead on that table: It is Friquet.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) A band of dark fury blinds my eyes  
> They no longer discern neither danger nor deliverance  
> But are fearful of gazing upon those places  
> Where my death is leading, where my presence causes fear  
> Embracing the earth and the vault of heaven.


	90. Dark Angel

_Meanwhile - in Marseille..._

She lit several candles and turned to look at him. He stood back a few feet, the dim light casting fragmented shadows over his sculpted features. How beautiful he was - tall, broader and heavier in the chest and shoulders than she remembered. He had an elegant presence, graceful for man so muscled. Time had taken some effect, the lines at the corners of his hazel eyes and mouth were deeper. His eyes were rimmed red with fatigue and those eyes were looking at her with penetrating intensity as though he was trying to understand who she was – or what she wanted from him. She saw something else in those eyes – not desire – but need.

‘You look exhausted Lucien,’ she said leading him to the sofa. She poured brandy and pressed the glass into his hand. He looked down at her hand covering his, his tongue flicking over his lips. Her breath caught in her throat. She pulled her hand away.

He stood abruptly and stepped to the fireplace, setting the glass on the mantle, bracing his hands against it and looking into the fire. She watched the muscles of his back bunch and shift under his doublet. He turned to her and held out his hand. Do not do this - her mind rebelled at his bidding, but she was already standing and walking to him. He put his arm around her shoulder stroking her nape gently, the callouses of his hand a gentle scrape against her skin. A warrior’s hand – closing around the hilt of a sword as surely as he handled her. He drew her to him, her cheek resting in the familiar space between shoulder and chest. You do not belong here her mind told her as she breathed in his familiar scent and her body leaned into him remembering the safety of that muscled space - she had never been so safe since.

He lifted her chin with strong fingers. His eyes held confusion as though puzzled to find her in his arms. He studied her face his fingers tracing her jaw and cheek. Years fell away – stop you will regret this - her arms reaching up to him. He is not yours anymore – but he was bending down to touch his lips to hers, his tongue invading and searching and then nothing mattered anymore.

>

With eyes still closed he felt the depth of lethargy born of too many sleepless nights, eyes gritty, stiffening limbs and bone deep weariness. He also felt the languorous sensations that inhabit a man’s body when he has indulged his appetites – more than once.

Sunlight poured through the slats of shutters still closed creating a lattice work of patches on the polished wooden floor. Outside were sounds of the day – people hurrying through the streets, vendors calling out their wares, horses and carts clattering along cobbled streets, and the endless cawing sound of seagulls that ricocheted between buildings and along the narrowed streets of the port city. As the sun rose higher, the room was warming. He heard servants moving in the hallways.

He rolled to his back looking up at the bed canopy and resting a forearm against his forehead. No nightmares last night – at least not those born in a dreaming state of sleep. Last night had seen the resurgence of different dreams and delusions from a time long past. A sensible man would have known it would have been prudent to let the past stay where it belonged – to not use present worries to draw it forward and use it to assuage fears – and loneliness. But he was not often sensible, and he was rarely prudent.

He leveraged himself to his elbows and scanned the room. A maid had left a steaming bucket of water by the fire. What he needed was cold water to confront the realities that came with morning’s light. He swung his feet to the floor.

She was waiting for him in a sunny room that served as a morning room. It looked out over a small but well-tended garden. Tulips were starting to bloom, jasmine climbed the enclosing walls, a garden bench circled a shading pine tree. She could hear his heavy booted step as he descended the stairs and strode down the short hallway. He came through the doorway and the room shrank as he filled it with his presence. She took a deep breath and turned to watch him take a seat across from her. He picked up a roll as a servant slid a plate with freshly grilled fish and a steaming cup. He raised his brow at her.

She smiled, ‘I remember Yusuf making that noxious drink for you in the morning.’ He smiled and took a sip, using his dagger to extract the bony spine from the fish. Silence fell between them as he ate. She resumed staring out the window.

He finished his meal and pushed the plate away, sitting back in the chair and studying her profile. Last night he had threaded his fingers through her red gold hair - a startling contrast to her pale skin, and he had kissed the freckles along her cheek and the tiny vessel that was beating rapidly in her long neck. The tapering fingers of one hand tapped nervously against the back of the other – with one broad hand holding her slender wrists he had pinned her hands over her head as he lost himself in her encompassing warmth. 

‘Madeleine.’ She inclined her head in his direction. ‘You are sorry,’ she anticipated his regret and was both defiant and resigned to his excuses - he had been drunk. But he had not been drunk and she deserved better.

‘No, I am not sorry,’ he said firmly. ‘You are a beautiful woman.’ Sophia would have slapped his face with his offer of banal flattering. She would no doubt slap his face for more than that now. A rational man with saintly understanding for the trust and love of others would bear his difficulties with more fortitude and not succumb to silky coppery hair, cool hands on his heated skin and the driving need for release from scorching nightmares. He considered himself rational, but he was certainly no saint. He was only a man.

‘I am...’ 

‘You are married,’ her reply was curt. ‘Then why?’ He sighed - women thought men knew the answers to such questions when their actions disappointed. Why are you drunk? Why did you leave me? Why did you betray me?

What answer would be enough? What manner of explanation would consign forgiving or simply forgetting? He looked out toward the garden. It was a colorful jewel of carefully planted flower beds, climbing jasmine and a shading tree. But it held no answers for him.

He had begun to accept that Sophia might never return, and his waiting for her was the act of a young and foolish man. His temper turned dark and he sought solitude to nurse his grief and anger. With a warm and gentle nature Madeleine had drawn him from his loneliness. She laughed easily and he found solace in her lush and willing body. He knew he didn’t love her as she loved him. He resolved to bury his hope and trade his passion for the easy comforts she offered. He might have stayed with her.

But fate had intervened, and Sophia was returned although some had tried to keep her from him. He had issued warnings that had gone unheeded and he had used deadly violence against those who had sought to keep them apart. He had no apologies. Even now, he would cleave the head of any man who tried to stand between him and Sophia.

‘I have no excuses or reasons to make to you and I bear all responsibility if I have given expectations beyond what I can honestly offer to you.’

‘My my,’ she was hurt by his lack of prevarication and was both defensive and derisive, ‘rubbing up against your lady wife has given your regrets a pretty polish. The Lucien I remember said nothing when he’d finished – just vanished.’ She turned back to the window her face tight and shoulders stiff. He raked a hand through his hair.

‘Is that how you remember it between us?’ he asked softly. A flush colored her cheeks as memories rose – _...he took her hand as they walked in the hills behind the city, he sang to her as he rowed a small dinghy to an inlet where he dove naked into the clear blue green water retrieving small pieces of coral or shells and laying his treasures like a romantic suitor at her feet, he held her during warm nights of love as he coaxed her to know her own pleasure and take it from him. Was there ever a man less conscious of his naked state? He wore his body with complete ease and assurance of his strength and capability – his muscular leg thrown over her, a strong arm around her waist as he slept..._

‘I do not mean to hurt you,’ he said softly. He may not have intended it, but he would not have stayed - whether or not she was hurt. 

‘Then what did...?’ she started to demand and then stopped. She blew out her breath, ‘I did not intend for it to go like this between us.’ She smoothed the tablecloth with her fingers. ‘For last night - I am not sorry either Lucien.’ 

Sophia would not be so selfless – she would never accept less than all she wanted from him. She would not have given herself to him for one night if what she wanted was a thousand nights. She stirred his blood like no other.

‘I am pleased you came,’ Madeleine said assuming he was here in response to her letter. He did not correct her. He was not in Marseille because of her letter. ‘My son…’ she stopped glancing quickly at him and took a deep breath. But before she could speak Lucien was suddenly on his feet.

‘You wrote asking for help with _my son_. The son you have claimed for the past 16 years was not mine.’ He remembered his anger staring at her in disbelief - she had shouted at him - _...you heard a story of Musketeers returning a long-lost noble daughter to Paris and you were gone...how should I know if you would ever return? ...he child is not yours..._

He had sent money. He prowled the room coming to stop in front of her. ‘I would have done more if you had wanted it.’

‘I wanted nothing from you,’ she said harshly. _...who is the father he had demanded – dammit Madeleine…who have you been with? ...she had wanted to weep – no one…I love you..._

‘I had to know if it was her…’

‘And it was, and you did not come back.’ Silence fell between them. 

‘But I had my son.’ She swallowed, ‘and I had Benito.’ His head came up and he stared at her as blankly. 

‘Benito?’ he seemed to not understand. Then his eyes narrowed, contempt filling his face, ‘Benito was your choice.’ He stepped back as though repulsed by her. ‘You told me you were returning to Spain – to your family. Since your sister’s death your mother…’

‘Not a death,’ she said scornfully, ‘she was murdered! By Musketeers! You know that!’ She squeezed her eyes shut, ‘I couldn’t go there,’ was all she would say.  


‘But to choose Benito…’ his disdain cut through her. _...no! she wanted to shout – I never had a choice._ But it was too late for it. When Lucien left Benito had simply moved into her her life.

‘He was here, and he stayed,’ she said raising her chin stubbornly, ‘he took care of me. He took care of us.’

‘You allowed that fiend to raise my son!’ He thrust his fist into the air angrily, ‘a son you never saw fit to be truthful about to me.’ She pushed against him, ‘I couldn’t tell you! You would have taken him away.’

_‘Yes! Of course I would have taken him away. The man is the devil's own!'_

‘I could not lose my son!’ she choked back a sob. He shook her – hard.

‘But you have lost him Madeleine,’ in his fury he was ruthless, ‘you have lost him to a monster – who you fear has created another monster!’ He gripped her by her arms and pulled her to her feet, ‘so Madame, what would you have me do now – for _my_ son?’ 

She was crying and dropped her head to his chest, sagging against him unable to support herself or stop her tears. ‘Save him,’ she wept, ‘please Lucien – save him.’

He held her upright as she cried. He wanted to close his heart to her suffering – to blame her for weakness that resulted in poor judgements and terrible consequences.

But all of that belonged to him. He’d had reason to doubt her and he had found it convenient not to do so. He had only thought of what he wanted and had left her to find her way. He had sent money to assuage his conscience. But he knew even then, that Benito would take advantage of his absence. No woman who valued her safety would have dared to deny him. No woman with an infant son would risk opposing him. He wrapped his arms around her holding her against him her sobs wetting his neck and soaking his shirt.

‘Where is he?’

>

_Outside Paris..._

It was an incongruous place to embody the Lord’s mercy and man’s charity. The building was made of gray stone - walls, ceilings, floors. There was no ornamental garden with colorful flowers or grasses on which to spread a blanket or inviting benches curling around shade trees. The room they were in was no exception to this ascetic ambience that permeated every room in this gray building. There was no carpet to soften the stone floor. No tapestries celebrating apostles or inspiring bible scenes to adorn the stone walls. The few pieces of furniture – desk, wooden chairs – were not meant to use with any semblance of comfort. The books that she was dusting, and re-shelving were not intended to be read in deep comfortable armchairs with adequate light – there was neither in the cold gloom of the room.

The aristocratic woman should have been a bright note of color and contrast. She was beautiful and wearing an elegant silk gown, her hair lustrous and styled. The Abbess had informed Sister Inez to expect the arrival of Madame Chevreuse and to escort her to the library. Sister Inez watched the woman alight from the carriage her silk cloak billowing around her.

‘Madame,’ said Sister Inez. The elegant woman offered her hand in greeting and Sister Inez took it tentatively. It was cold to her touch.  
>p>‘Sister,’ acknowledged Madame Chevreuse in a polite and slightly bored tone as she looked around. She turned her gaze back to Sister Inez, widening her eyes to appear amiable. But instead of warmth in her ice blue eyes there appeared a calculating indifferent assessment. Sister Inez suppressed a shudder.

Now, the lady wandered the periphery of the room gazing briefly out the tall windows. Had she paused she would see children in the yard below during their brief recess from chores. She stopped at the window overlooking the rear yard and cemetery beyond. Sister Inez peered out the window too but only saw a worker cutting overgrown vegetation in the cemetery. 

The door opened and the Abbess entered. ‘Thank you, Sister,’ she dismissed Sister Inez and waved Madame Chevreuse to a chair. ‘I am sorry to keep you waiting Madame,’ the Abbess pulled at her whimple with an abstract gesture of preoccupation. ‘There are other visitors.’

‘Visitors?’ asked Madame Chevreuse blandly. ‘Charitable donors I should hope.’

‘The Duchess of Aiguillon is on a mission for Father de Paul. She and her assistants are conducting an audit of records for the foundling homes and orphanages in the regions.’

‘It all sounds quite tedious,’ Madame Chevreuse affected disinterest in the conversation. ‘I had hoped to speak to you about a donation from a benefactor who has authorized me to speak to you on their behalf. But perhaps you have more pressing concerns today.’

The Abbess straightened her already ramrod stiff spine, ‘of course not Madame. I am grateful for your thoughtful attentions to the children at Bicetre. Might I know the name of our generous benefactor?’

‘It is the same donor as previously,’ said the lady, ‘the amount is significant. I think you will be pleased.’ The Abbess inclined her head in acknowledgement.

‘The Duchess of Aiguillon,’ murmured Madame Chevreuse. ‘Do you know Her Grace?’ asked the Abbess. ‘We have not met,’ Madame Chevreuse was impassive, tapping her chin with one slender finger thoughtfully. ‘You say she is here with others?’

‘M de la Reynie, an investigator for M Diodati and a young woman – the daughter of the Duchess de la Croix.’

‘My goodness- such a curious assemblage,’ remarked Madame Chevreuse and she wondered if it warranted her attention or that of her cousin – although she couldn’t fathom why.

‘The daughter of the Duchess de la Croix you say…and her father?' The Abbess grimaced, ‘Lucien Grimaud.’

‘I do not know the man,’ Madame Chevreuse touched her hair in a languorous gesture. ‘Nor have I met the young lady.’

The Abbess stood and moved to the window facing the rear of the building and motioned for the lady to follow her. The Abbess pointed toward the cemetery. Madame Chevreuse watched a young woman with a slender form and dark hair talking with a worker. She shrugged dismissively and turned back to the Abbess.

‘I also wish to speak about a need I have for a new maid. Can you help me with a suitable girl?’

>

Suzanne walked through the dirt yard toward the cemetery. It was a warm spring day which helped to soften the dark feeling that overwhelmed her at this harsh stone place. Until she came here with her father, she had not known the circumstances of care for orphans. She shared her father’s opinion that Bicetre did not meet the wished-for definition of care.

She entered the cemetery and walked toward the far border, where a spreading chestnut tree shaded the actress’ grave. M Diodati and M de la Reynie had been certain that the actress was not her sister, but Suzanne felt compelled to pay her respects to this abandoned and misused girl. Her father had done the same on several occasions. How she wished he were here now. She blinked back tears and crossed her arms around herself.  


‘Mlle, may I be of assistance?’ a deep male voice behind her. She turned and looked up into hazel eyes, a lean face with sharp features and dark hair. He was tall, young, only a few years older than her. His smile was both questioning and disarming. She swallowed back her tears and waved her hand to indicate the grave.

‘Did you know her?’ he asked pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and holding it out to her. She looked at his hand and handkerchief.

‘It’s clean – the handkerchief I mean,’ his eyes held an amused look. Not wanting to give offense, she took it and wiped her eyes,  


‘Thank you, M,’ she started to hand it back to him, but he held up his hand, ‘please – keep it.’ She gave a small smile of thanks and kept her eyes on his. His manner seemed pleasant enough, but she sensed other currents beneath his affable smile and sociable remarks.

‘I did not know her. She was an orphan here,’ she glanced at the unforgiving stone building and then back to him. He was studying her intently, a small frown between his brows as though he was trying to remember her. She took a step back suddenly unsure of how to explain her reasons for being here. Or perhaps it was because she didn’t know his reasons for such close examination.

His lips curved into an assured and charming smile, ‘it is kind of you to visit her.’ What could she say to that? 

‘You work here?’ she asked.

He picked up the tools he had dropped, ‘might I know your name Mlle,’ he seemed to ignore her question and unexpectedly she bristled at the affront. He turned away to throw tools into the cart behind him the muscles in his upper arms bulging and tightening his shirt with the effort. He already had the height of a full-grown man and was coming into the muscled body. He moved with an easy confidence. She shifted nervously and looked around the empty cemetery. Martin had watched her walk to the cemetery and returned to the Duchess. For the moment, she was alone.

‘My name is Suzanne,’ she said firmly and extended a hand to him, ‘Suzanne Grimaud.’

Had she not been watching him closely she might have missed the barely perceptible moment of startle before he took her small hand in his large one. He held it easily and lifted it to hold against his lips – as though he was in thanksgiving for a present – or a prize. She felt the flush rising up her neck to her cheeks.

He stroked the back of her hand with one finger. The improper nature of his touch stunned her, and she felt immobilized by the hypnotic effect. He looked at her with both amusement and grave intent. He tilted his chin to the grave, ‘did you know she has your father to thank for her eternal slumber here? No actress would have been allowed to be buried in these consecrated grounds.’ His lip curled in disdain at her father’s act of charity.

‘You disapprove of her burial here?’ she was amazed that a working man would hold this opinion. He shook his head and narrowed his eyes at her.  


‘I only wonder - does he care for his family with the same care and regard?’ He had not yet relinquished her hand.

‘I must take my leave,’ she drew herself up and regarded him sternly. She would not deign to discuss her family or her father with a stranger.  


He beamed at her and raised her hand a second time to his lips. She had the sensation that she felt the wet tip of his tongue. Firmly she pulled her hand back to her side.

‘Might I know your name M,’ she asked archly. She would know the name of this impertinent and confusing young man.

My name is Gabriel,’ he said softly. ‘Gabriel Martinez.’

‘Like…,’ she gasped inanely. He smiled as if he merited the trust and serenity his name implied.

‘Yes,’ he said with a teasing smile. ‘like an angel.’


	91. What the Soul Wants...

_In the Mediterranean_

 

Lucien stood at the rail of the ship, squinting into the sun and the wind, his dark hair whipping around his face and shoulders. He stood with arms crossed and legs spread absorbing the pitch and roll of the ship. The sky was clear blue, a few scattered clouds and the sun beating down hot and relentless. The wind was good, and the sea a brilliant turquoise. It was a thoroughly enjoyable way to start a day. He had watched the horizon carefully for any sign of an approaching vessel.

‘If you are going to keep watch Grimaud, we need you in the crow’s nest,’ Captain Duguay’s deep bass voice boomed from the quarter deck as a captain’s voice was intended to do. Lucien turned and lifted a hand to acknowledge the friendly teasing.

‘Old habits die hard,’ he called back. The captain nodded, ‘if not - a man can die hard.’ He waved a hand for Lucien to join him and Lucien strode up the short flight of steps.

‘But we will not be bothered. The French and Spanish are too busy with each other to trouble us. Besides Grimaud - you have the beck and call – so you are safe!’ The captain laughed uproariously as everyone in this business knew a letter of marque was no protection over being executed for piracy by one’s own country. Given his Queen’s disposition toward him, Lucien was sure he might yet know that truth firsthand.

‘Still pressing olives Grimaud?’ winked the captain. Lucien grinned, ‘and making soap!’

‘Ha! Now there’s a business for a privateer,’ chortled the captain. ‘We should talk business Grimaud,’ advised Captain Duguay. ‘We would do well together, and I have a brother in Algiers I would like you to meet.’

The captain was not referring to olive oil or soap. The Ottomans had organized pirate activities in the western Mediterranean into an impressive organization, complete with recruitment, coordination of operations against merchant ships and even investors to provide the capital and expenses of a ship and crew. The potential profits to be made from pirate’s prizes made it an attractive proposition.

‘Have you done business with Benito?’ Lucien asked in a neutral tone. Captain Duguay spat over the railing.

‘That swine,’ a bad name for a Muslim to call a man. Lucien grimaced, ‘I take it you do not favor him.’ Captain Duguay snorted but gave no answer turning his attention to the approaching shoreline and issuing orders to his crew.

Lucien watched the rocky coastline of Tunisia come into view, the dark shapes of the two massifs, Djebel bou Kornine and Djebel Hallouf overlooking the gulf waters. Ships were at anchor and he could see the small galleys like giant water beetles moving back and forth to the port at La Goulette and beyond through the channel to the city.

He was here because he had a message from Paris. There was no sign of Benito’s men and Bonnaire had also disappeared. He was now certain that Benito’s crew had found safe harbor in the tunnels under the city. Smugglers, pirates, the desperately poor who could not find shelter above ground, sought refuge in the tunnels. There were many who knew parts of the tunnels, but few who knew them well and could navigate the rambling maze of tunnels than ran through the limestone rock underneath the city of Paris.  
Lucien knew such a man and he would find him in Tunis.

The ship dropped anchor and he arranged to meet Captain Duguay later. He jumped into a small galley and rode to the port and then through the channel into the city. He climbed up to the wharf and picked his way past merchants and traders, clerks and crewmen, piles of rope, barrels and crates of fish stacked high. Overhead the gulls circled and screamed as rotten food was tossed aside.

He strode up bumpy cobbled streets crowded with street vendors and clusters of veiled women shepherded by vigilant male relatives. He walked through the gateway that led into the interior of the city and into the maze of streets. He walked along a narrow roadway with white stone buildings on either side and at intervals carved and brightly painted doors that marked the entrance into a courtyard. He stopped at a blue green door with a horseshoe arch topped with a wooden pergola and yanked the bell pull.

A servant opened the door and bowed admitting him into a square vestibule paved with flagstone and stone benches along each wall. He was led into a large square courtyard cut into quarters by colorfully tiled walkways that led to four large rooms surrounding the courtyard. The open areas were planted with cork oak, olive trees and palms. The air was scented with flowering jasmine and the incense that was burned inside the house. It was a beautiful elegant home – it had been built by a pirate who had governed the city for a time.

The servant opened a door to one room and stood aside to let him pass. A deep alcove contained a long low couch with another facing it and a low table between. A door opened and a small woman with a wide happy smile walked quickly toward him holding out her hands.

‘Lucien,’ she was happy to see him. He took her small hands in large ones smiling down at her.

‘Samara,’ he kissed both cheeks and took a step back to survey her head to toe. She was very small – barely reaching his breastbone, a mane of soft dark curling hair escaping its pins, her chestnut skin smooth under his fingers. Behind her came the large muscular dark-skinned man he had met in the tavern in Marseille.

‘Jacky,’ he said, and the two men embraced. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’

‘Lucien,’ he said, his voice deep and vibrating within his big chest, his hands, big enough to crush a man’s neck, thumped Lucien’s back. ‘I am glad you are here my friend.’

‘Sit,’ said Samara patting the place next to her. ‘Tell me everything about your family. How big is Samy now? I love Suzanne’s little drawings of her sisters. Will she study art? How is Sophia? Why is she not here…?’ Her husband held up a hand laughing softly, ‘patience my love, give the man a chance to answer one question.

Samara Alamein Azoulay was the daughter of a Spanish general. A Moor, General Alamein had led many successful campaigns for his adopted country, but he had been treated contemptibly by the Spanish. Lucien had met Samara when she came to his offices to request assistance in returning to Morocco. She had accompanied her father on a fateful trip to Paris. General Alamein had died there in a failed attempt to barter a newly developed weapon to the French king.

He had arranged for her to travel to Marseille and then on to Morrocco. As a woman alone and without protection, he introduced her to a man he trusted to help her. Jacky Azoulay had been captured off the coast of north west Africa and was on a ship bound for the pirate port of Ghar el-Melh and the slave markets at El Berka when Lucien Grimaud attacked and stole Benito’s slave ship. He set Benito and his crew adrift in a small boat and returned the captured people to a free port. Some remained to work for him. Jacky and Samara had eventually married.

A servant brought a loaded tray with a fragrant selection of small food items and set it on the table. Lucien inhaled the aromas of tiny eggplants and grilled lamb, chopped dill mixed with cheese, crisped fish and pine nuts, rice rolled into grape leaves. Jacky brought a flask and two glasses from a cupboard. Lucien raised an eyebrow at the wine. Samara laughed, ‘he’s not a very good Muslim!’

‘I’m no kind of Muslim,’ said her husband smiling at her. ‘But he’s a very good smuggler,’ she laughed again and patted his hand. Jacky flashed a triumphant smile and lifted the flask, ‘Spanish wine!’ Lucien grinned broadly and for a few minutes they ate and talked of family and children, business and politics.

‘I am delighted to see you Lucien,’ said Jacky, ‘and the business is going well for us. There is land for sale that I want you to see. But I think you have something else on your mind besides wine making.’

Lucien leaned back against the cushions. He was more relaxed than he had been for weeks. The company of friends and talk of his family and wife had pleased him deeply and been a welcome diversion from his reason for coming here. He suddenly yearned for home and Sophia. He could not go there or to her yet.

‘Benito lives.’ He said it bluntly. Jacky nodded soberly, ‘I know.’ Neither of them had expected to see Benito de Soto d’Aboel alive again.

‘He was seen and then vanished.,’ said Jacky. ‘Some said he went north.’ Lucien shifted forward on the couch balancing his forearms on his thighs. ‘Yes, he has a crew and they are operating in or around Paris and I don’t know where else. Benito is using Bonnaire’s ship.’

‘Bonnaire!’ exclaimed Jacky. ‘He came into port with pearls and coral and other gems. It is said he uses the tunnels to get into Paris to sell them,’ he shrugged, ‘I do not think Bonnaire could do even that much without getting lost. Or Benito is helping him – he would know enough to get in and out of the city.’

‘I came across his crew trying to kill a Musketeer,’ said Lucien. Jacky widened his eyes in shock, ‘a Musketeer? why?’ Lucien shook his head, ‘I do not know. But I have been searching for the crew. I haven’t found them, and I believe they are using the tunnels to hide.’

Jacky looked pensive stroking his chin absently, ‘that’s possible I suppose. If so, they have someone in the crew who knows them well. It would be very easy to get lost – or worse.’ The tunnels were extensive, a labyrinth of passageways some narrowing to small for a child to fit through, blind ends, mine shafts, dust and debris falling from weakened walls and ceiling. Some had ventured into the tunnels and never been seen again.

‘Could you find them?’ asked Lucien. During the uprising Sophia and Joseph had used the tunnels to get into Paris - he knew the risks. He watched Samara tighten her fingers around her husband’s arm. Jacky smiled into her deep brown eyes and covered her hand with his. He looked at Lucien.

‘Do you remember any of the others...? from the ship…’ he asked softly his eyes looking at something only he could see. Lucien kept his eyes on Jacky’s and waited.

‘We were packed in, chained on shelves alternating feet to head. We pissed on the those below us and the only air was from the open hatch. There were children, ripped from their mother’s arms when they were dragged up to the deck for the men to use. One woman would not let go of her baby and so they took both up to the deck and when the men were finished, they ordered her below. But she ran to the railing and threw herself and her child into the sea.’ The room was silent except for the sound of Samara weeping softly.  
Jacky returned his gaze to Lucien, ‘I don’t know if the baby wasn’t already dead,’ his voice was quiet. Lucien did not look away.

I will help you,’ he said. ‘On two conditions. When we find him, I will be the one to kill him.’ Lucien studied the man’s stony face and then nodded firmly, ‘and the second?’

Now Jacky smiled, ‘I have a proposition for you!’ He rose and went to a cabinet returning with a small pouch. Lucien rolled his eyes affecting a wary look, ‘what is it?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘This,’ said Jacky and he dropped the pouch in Lucien’s hand. Curious and frowning, Lucien pulled the pouch open and peered inside. He looked up quickly at a grinning Jacky and then he dipped his finger into the pouch and brought it to his mouth. His eyes widened at the sweet taste. He picked up his glass of wine and raised it in a salute.

‘Where did you find this?’ he asked with considerable interest. It was a cargo worth a fortune.

‘A Dutch ship – out of Amsterdam bound for England's merchants I warrant. Un-escorted if you can believe it. No doubt they thought it would be a quick trip. We just got lucky.’  
Lucien snorted, ‘amazingly lucky!’ he laughed. ‘Where is it? I assume there are those looking for it?’

‘The ship is in a small cove off the south coast of Ireland,’ Jacky’s eyes gleamed with a mischievous look. ‘It is safe there – the villagers are friendly.’ Lucien’s hand holding his glass stopped halfway to his mouth.

‘You have a stolen Dutch merchant ship filled with sugar, crewed by runaway slaves, hunted by the English navy and hidden in an Irish hideaway!’

The two men stared at each other and then they roared with laughter.

‘And you want me to broker this for you?’ Dear God man,’ gasped Lucien, ‘how could I say no to this madness? It may be worth getting hanged for it!’ They laughed again. Samara was frowning at them, ‘what a pair you are!’

‘Indeed!’ Lucien was choking on his laughter, ‘what could go wrong?’

>  
The night air was sweet with the scent of jasmine, a welcome coolness from the heat of the day. Lucien leaned back against the cushions his legs splayed out in front of him. Around him he heard the low voices of men and an occasional burst of laughter. Throughout the day, as word spread of Lucien’s arrival, men had come to sit in Jacky’s fragrant garden and drink a glass of orange scented khave or sweet wine. What these men shared was surviving the chains that had shackled them to a narrow shelf in the hold of a stinking ship. It was quiet gathering, stories shared of lives that had gone forward from that time. Some of these men intended to go north with Jacky and Lucien could see that Samara was relieved that her husband would not travel alone. Instruments came out and songs were sung of a life at sea and a romantic melody wafted through the night air.

Lucien closed his eyes, a slow peace overtaking him as music flowed around and through him. A memory drifted forward of a night in Marseille when the same melody floated up on evening breezes and through the open window of their bedchamber as he held Sophia in his arms as they drifted in the sensual pleasures of love. He saw that memory at a great distance – separated by fiery dreams, vengeful enemies and his own perfidy. Suddenly the same notes seemed to sharpen, and he felt a pang of loss so intense he almost clutched his chest in reaction.

A cool hand stroked his cheek. He opened his eyes to the gentle gaze of Samara. She was veiled and had slipped into the garden to sit next to him, ‘I remember Sophia was fond of this song.’ He sighed and nodded.

‘You are far from your home Lucien,’ she said. She wasn’t talking about a mansion in the Marais or country estate. 

‘I cannot yet go home,’ he said. And when she knows the truth, she may not want me.

‘You look sad,’ she said still stroking his forehead. He leaned his head against her shoulder, ‘we men are such beasts,’ he said, ‘we do not deserve any woman much less the woman who loves us.’

‘So not only sad,’ she smiled, ‘but guilty too.’ He blew out his cheeks and gave a mirthless laugh. ‘I should know better than to prevaricate with you.’

‘Perhaps you should heed the advice of the ancients, these pains you feel are messengers. Listen to them.’ 

‘You think the poets can convince her to forgive me?’ he asked ruefully. 

‘There was a time when you gambled everything for love Lucien,’ she said, ‘what matters now is that you do what your soul tells you to do,’ she gently nipped his cheek between thumb and forefinger.

She pulled a slim volume from her pocket, ‘let me read this to you.’

_This is how it is to come near you_  
_A wave of light builds in the black pupil  
of the eye. The old become young._

_The opening lines of the Qur'an open still more._  
_Inside every human chest there is a hand,  
but it has nothing to write with._

_Love moves further in, where language  
turns to fresh cream on the tongue._

_Every accident, and the essence of every being,_  
_is a bud, a blanket tucked into a cradle,  
a closed mouth._

_All these buds will blossom,_  
_and in that moment you will know_  
_what your grief was,_  
_and how the seed you planted has been miraculously,  
and naturally, growing._

_Now silence.  
Let soul speak inside spoken things.”_


End file.
